
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/482179.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape, Hermione_Granger/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape, Draco_Malfoy, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger,
      Albus_Dumbledore, Narcissa_Malfoy, Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort, Lucius_Malfoy,
      Winky_(Harry_Potter), Dobby_(Harry_Potter)
  Additional Tags:
      Minor_Character_Death, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Torture
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_J._Alfred_Prufrock_Arc
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-10-07 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 126256
****** Where the Heart Moves the Stone ******
by Vain
Summary
     The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc Verse 9 - SS/HP slash. A story of hunters,
     hunted, & prophets in which Harry fights for Severus, Severus fights
     himself, and Draco gets caught in the crossfire.
Notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
     Standard_Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and
     all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered
     trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The
     Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. The
     lyrics to Dark Time belongs to October Project. All biblical quotes
     cited can be found in the King_James_Bible released by Thomas Nelson
     Publishers. I am not profiting from this.
     Warnings: SS/HP slash.
     *Continuity: This is the sequel to Two Foot Palace and is Verse 9 of
     J. Alfred Prufrock Arc.
     Notes: Rule of thumb: Any quote from The Love Song of J. Alfred
     Prufrock Severus’s POV. Any quote from The Mystic’s Dream is Harry’s
     POV. Those lyrics preceding the chapters that are not from the Bible
     are from October Project’s song Dark Time.
     A thousand laurels to my beta ladydeathfarie--Best Beta Ever. XD I
     love this woman; she makes me lucid!
      
     Do not steal from me.
      
     Please review.
      
     Enjoy!
***** Prologue: The Blind Men's Duet *****
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                                 ~ Prologue ~
                             The Blind Men's Duet
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                  "I should have been a pair of ragged claws
                  Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
             And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
                           Smoothed by long fingers,
                      Asleep... tired... or it malingers,
                Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
                    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
             Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
              But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
  Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
                 I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
                I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
          I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
                         And in short, I was afraid."
                                 - T.S. Elliot
                      The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
"Sir? Sir . . .?"
Papers shuffled as the man gathered a bundle of scrolls in his arms,
steadfastly ignoring the boy standing in front of his desk.
The boy pursed his lips and clenched his hands tightly around the scroll he
held at his chest. The man turned around so that he didn't have to raise his
eyes to meet those of his companion and began to file the scrolls on the
shelves behind his desk. The classroom was empty—it would be the dinner hour
soon—and, somewhere in the very back of the room, water dripped steadily into
the sink. The smell of wormwood and cinnamon was heavy in the air.
"Sir?" He took a tentative step forward closer to the desk. "I have the essay
for you."
The man continued to ignore him.
"I finished it this morning. Madame Pomfrey just released me."
Silence.
"Do you—"
"Leave it on the desk."
For a moment the boy hesitated, the scroll still held tightly to his chest.
Directly in front of his heart. The man continued his filing.
"Sir—"
"The desk, Mr. Potter."
The silence of the dungeon was broken as the boy slammed his scroll down on the
teacher's desk. "Severus—!"
Severus froze. "Get out, Potter."
"I—"
The man whirled around, black eyes flashing with an indescribable emotion.
"OUT!!!"
Harry fled.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Once upon a time there was a little boy who used to reach out to grasp
Christmas lights. Every year, as soon as the weather turned chill and the
kerosene heater came out, he would remember the lights. His foster mother was
very, very poor and could not afford to have an ordinary Christmas, so she had
to do the best she could—even if that meant doing things the Muggle way. So
every year she would string up a bedraggled strand of glittering lights in
their tiny efficiency and the little boy—still a baby, really—would toddle over
to the ragged, fake Christmas tree that was missing more boughs than it had,
and try to pull down the lights. Occasionally he would succeed and topple the
little tree in the process, but his mother could not bring herself to begrudge
her boy such a small pleasure. She could not afford presents, so the lights
would have to do.
One Christmas however, when the boy was about four or five, his mother did not
string up the Christmas lights. In fact, she did not get out of bed at all. The
little boy hovered anxiously about his mother as she lay still in her bed,
occasionally prodding her with a small, slightly chubby finger.
"Mama? Mama?"
She was not his real mama; he knew that. She had been a friend of his real
mama, she had once told him. Close friends ever since First Year, she'd always
said. She would never say more, though; she only spoke of 'those days' with a
distant kind of pain. The little boy didn't understand, but he didn't remember
his real Mama either, so he called her Mama instead. The woman didn't mind.
"You're my son, then!" she'd say. "My baby. My family."
"Mama?"
The woman reached out to the child and tried to pull him up onto the bed with
her, but was too weak. Her thin, pale arms went lax and her breath rattled
loudly in her chest, a rough, wet sound. "Come lay down with Mama, Tommy."
The boy clambered up onto the thin, uncomfortable mattress and snuggled into
his foster mother's arms. "Are you sick, Mama?"
For a moment the woman was silent, then she sighed sadly. "I'm tired, Tommy."
Solemn green eyes watched his mother's drawn, sweat streaked face. A small nose
wrinkled. "You should go to sleep then."
"I'd like that." She smiled faintly, a surprisingly soft expression for such a
hard face, but one that made her seem to glow for a moment. Her deep blue eyes
closed tiredly. "Tommy, if I ever go away, you will have to look out for
yourself, okay, love? Can you do that for Mama?"
"Where are you going, Mama?"
A short gasp left her thin chest, a sound resembling a chuckle. "Nowhere yet,
lovey. But if I do, then just remember that. Remember how much I love you. And
remember that, no matter what anyone says or does to you, you are special. You
are stronger than them. Better. Smarter. There is so much—"
She broke off, coughing and gasping for air. Blood stained her lips.
"Mama?"
"I love you Tommy. And no matter what, don't you ever let them beat you." Tears
slid down the woman's thin cheeks. "Don't make the mistakes that I did. You be
in control, not them."
The child's brow furrowed as he frowned at his mother. A small hand rose and
clumsily brushed the tears off her cheeks. "Please don't cry, Mama. It'll be
okay. Go to sleep—I'll protect you."
A sigh left the woman, a seeming acquiescence and her blue eyes fluttered
closed reluctantly.
"Go to sleep, Mama."
Several days later the police arrived on a telephone call from the neighbors.
It was Christmas Eve when they found a small child scrounging about in a
cupboard for food. His mother, a pretty young woman who had aged too soon, lay
dead in the adjacent room. The medical examiner said that it was tuberculosis.
There had been a small epidemic sweeping the slums that year, but no one really
cared. It was only the poor.
The woman was given a pauper's funeral: a mumbled prayer and a wooden box in a
shallow grave with only a bit of stone with her name to mark the site. The
child was placed in one of London's many over-crowded, under funded orphanages
under the care of an abusive monstrosity of a man named Calloway. Soon, he too
faded from sight, swallowed by the quagmire that was Social Services and
eventually relegated to a faded name on a yellow file in an overstuffed cubby.
And, again, no one cared.
Thus was the fate of a little boy who no longer remembered the lights.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Narcissa Malfoy lay in bed, her husband's head on her lap as she gently stroked
his pale hair back from his face. Lucius's clouded gray eyes stared up at the
green canopy that sheltered their bed and his breathing was soft and even.
Narcissa sang quietly as her fingers massaged his scalp; it was an old song,
her father had sung it to her, and she had sung it to Draco. Before she and
Lucius had made good on their betrothal vows, Lucius had never had anyone to
sing to him.
"Way over yonder . . . Is a place that I know . . . Where I can find shelter .
. . From the hunger and cold . . ."
Lucius stirred slightly. "Draco . . .?"
The singing stopped short as a sudden breath caught in the delicate woman's
throat. "He . . . left for school. Over a month ago." Her words were hesitant,
the veela heritage that they had both passed onto their son giving her melodic
voice a seductively mournful quality.
"Oh . . ." Lucius's brow furrowed suddenly and he looked annoyed, the odd foggy
look in his eyes lifting for a moment. "I know that!" He sounded peevish.
Narcissa sighed silently and resumed stroking his hair. "The letter . . . There
was a letter . . .?"
"I sent it this morning."
The foggy look returned. "Oh . . . Did you tell him—"
Narcissa's porcelain features twisted in pain and she turned her face away
slightly, her wide blue eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You spoke to him before he
left. Remember, love? And this summer. Draco knows what he may do."
Lucius opened his eyes and frowned sadly at the pain on his wife's face. "He
was angry with me when he left. I . . . said harsh things." Narcissa said
nothing. Lucius tilted his head slightly to the side. "I struck him."
The hand running through his hair tightened momentarily before letting go. "I
know." The stroking resumed.
After a moment Lucius reached up and gently cupped Narcissa's cheek. She
flinched and then turned her face back to him. A gentle swipe with his thumb
soothed away the lone tear that slid down her smooth cheek. Their eyes met and,
though they did not smile at one another, the tension in the room seemed to
dissipate.
"Continue?"
Narcissa blinked rapidly at the quiet request and leaned back against the
headboard again. She may not like everything her husband did—indeed, sometimes
she did not even like her husband—but he was her husband.
Lucius closed his eyes. "He's calling again."
"Will you go to him?" she asked, threading her fingers again through that long
silky hair. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Lucius always went.
"Soon." He opened his eyes and watched her expressionlessly. "It will be
alright."
"Mmm," Narcissa agreed quietly. He was her husband—she didn't have to like him
to love him. And she did love him. "It will be alright."
Veelas mate for life.
"Continue?" he asked once more.
Narcissa smiled faintly and closed her eyes. It would be alright. "And the
sweet tasting good life . . . Is so easily found . . . Way over yonder, that's
where I'm bound . . ."
And as she sang, the Dark Mark on Lucius's arm burned.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Inside the highest tower of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus
Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, idly stroking his beard. It was late
and the fire had burned down to barely more than embers, but he made no attempt
to revive it. His face was lined with wrinkles and age had made his skin papery
and thin. His hands were slightly gnarled-looking and his eyes seemed to lack
their normal clarity, as though the years weighed more heavily on him at that
moment than they usually did. Currently those eyes were fixed on a large
grandfather clock set in a hidden corner, nearly engulfed by shadows.
The wood of the clock was deep cherry oak and the pendulum was a heavy golden
teardrop that swung stiffly in an even, tireless rhythm. A table stood next to
the clock. On it was a strange, six-tiered board upon which multiple pieces
spun silently.
The clock struck with a dull chime, the heavy bells behind the pendulum rising
and fall five times.
Albus closed his eyes tiredly. "Twenty-seven hands." Perhaps he'd have to have
a new one made soon.
On the Scaccarium the carunculous danced without cease.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** The Flight of the Timid Man *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                                ~ Chapter One ~
                          The Flight of the Timid Man
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                           What dark time is coming?
                            What dark time is here?
                              The prophet emerges
                             in garments of fear.
                 He calls to his people to come to the feast;
                   They gather unto him to wait for release.
                                Alleluia . . .
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
I think I would make a marvelous lush. It’s ten o’clock. Detention is over.
I’ve sent the last owl out to Potions Weekly. My Slytherins are safely tucked
in—or at least shamming it well enough that I’ll not be bothered. And he’s . .
. somewhere.
He’s not asleep. I doubt he ever sleeps much these days. He’s become very good
at hiding his slouched posture and smiling when the situation demands it. But I
can see past the glamour he’s woven around himself to hide his hollow cheeks
and the circles beneath his eyes. Most of the staff can as well, and, though we
sit around and weekly argue the boy’s case at every staff meeting, nothing gets
done. I make the proper acidic comments, whether or not it’s warranted, Minerva
scolds me and glares, Sprout simpers to no effect, and Trelawney favors us all
with a sad, condescending smile and her usual occasional dramatics predicting
his unpleasant end. And all the while the Boy-Who-Lived-For-Nothing slides just
a bit farther away, slowly but surely. It is all very tiring.
In the far corner sits that blasted invisibility cloak, left behind from when
he fled my lab and draped with telltale care over an old rocking chair that
Albus insists I keep in here. That was probably the smartest thing he has ever
done: run away and hide. I recognize this on a purely intellectual level, of
course. On any other level, it cuts like Crucius—all the more reason to bypass
any other level. My father used to say that you have to break in half to love
someone. Not his words, I’m sure, but he was a man of curious wisdom and as a
child I learned very quickly to never give him cause to repeat himself.
I cannot stop staring at the damn cloak. For some reason, I have the strangest
idea that if I go over there and lift it up, he’ll be sitting there staring at
me with those horrendously expectant eyes. Watching. Waiting.
For what? Why? Why from me?
He understands nothing.
And yet he always seems to leave me with more questions than answers. I loathe
him for that. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance is death.
“There is no time!”
And I hate that damn rocking chair. Damn Albus.
I close my eyes and turn back to the fire. I should burn the cloak. It’s the
best I can offer him right now—and the best thing I can do for myself. The . .
. temptation to use it . . . is great. But it is a Potter cloak, not mine.
Nothing that has been a Potter’s can ever be a Snape’s. We do not accept
charity. We have never needed to. And Potters have always (wisely) stayed by
their own kind.
Something as which I do not qualify.
“Mother!! Father, stop it!”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy!”
My eyes close before they can return to staring at the chair in the corner.
Yes. You have to break in half to love someone. I am not that much of a fool
yet.
. . . I should burn the cloak.
Yet I know I cannot.
I slouch a bit farther in my chair and take a sip of merlot. The sweet flavor
masks most of the alcohol and I wonder idly if I really should have a third
glass tonight. Probably not, but I will anyway.
I do many things that I should not. I find myself caring less and less these
days. “You’re becoming distant,” Albus tells me. “Is everything alright, my
boy?”
No. And I am not your damn boy.
Your spy? Yes. Your servant? Yes. I’ll even accept serf. It’s no less than I
deserve; I put myself in this position. My own carelessness, arrogance,
bigotry, and stupidity landed me where I am today. I am a slave to two
masters—both mad in their own ways, both brilliant—and I know and understand
that.
But I am not your boy. Nor am I the Dark Lord’s serpent, or whatever other
condescending endearment strikes his fancy. I am myself. I leave all other
titles to lesser or greater men than I, and there is no short supply of them.
So don’t call me your damn boy, Albus.
I take another sip of my merlot. The sudden unsteadiness of my hand has nothing
to do with the alcohol.
Fools, liars, and murders: the whole lot of them. And I stand among the worst
of them for daring . . . for thinking—
Why didn’t he simply leave when I told him to? Why did he have to be so
stubborn? So damned determined? So . . . him?
And how could I have . . . have attacked him like that? Pressed him so tightly
against me, and crushed his mouth to mine, touched what I had no right—no
RIGHT—
Why is this happening?
I clutch the glass tighter than necessary and merlot sloshes over the lip to
spill onto the expensive rug below.
I see him. I see him everyday. He’s hiding. Hiding from me, hiding from his
friends, hiding from himself. And I want to comfort him and I want to kill him.
Not in some in some abstract way, but in a real, physical, finite way. I want
to kill him. I want to end his existence.
I want to kill him because he’s here. I want to kill him because he’s not with
me. I want to kill him so that I never have to face him—this—ever again. I want
to kill him so that no one else will. I want to kill him because it would be so
much kinder—so much better—to stop this suffering that he’s so determined to
endure. I want to kill him . . .
Because he’s mine.
And those thoughts thrill and sicken me by turns.
And I could be so kind! So gentle. No pain. No fear. No terrible knowledge of
the end. Poison in his butterbeer—simple, sweet, and quiet. I’d hold him as he
slept. I could do that for him. I could save him like that; I swear I could.
. . .
So I mustn’t go near him. Mustn’t look. Mustn’t touch. Mustn’t want, even
though I can’t stop myself. Even though the effort tears us both apart.
I’ve made his life hell this year. I ignore him. I barely acknowledge his
presence in class, save to prevent him from harming himself. I fear that he may
become more reckless or even self-destructive. Instead he studies. He’s smart,
so much smarter than I thought he was. I want to tell him so, but what would it
mean? I look through him when he tries to speak to me. He takes his detentions
with Filch. I watch him, and we both know that he’s watching me, but I don’t
dare go near him. Not ever again. Not when I want something this much.
I don’t even have a name to assign to the mess of emotions he inspires. I
loathe him. I cherish him. I want him. I want to destroy him to protect him.
And the feelings grow daily. What happens, I wonder, if one day the Dark Lord
looks in me and sees him? Or worse, if he looks into me and sees himself? That
scares me even more than the Dark Lord.
I am a coward. I have lived my life dictated by either apathy or fear. I feared
James Potter and Sirius Black. I feared the possibility of turning into my
father. I feared failing my mother—invalidating her sacrifice. The rest does
not matter to me, neither then nor now. I don’t care who wins the world by the
end of this—I will survive. I am Slytherin. When all has passed, I will be
standing still, or nothing will be left to stand.
But now there is him to contend with. My benevolent, misguided child-god. My
own Odin on the World Tree. My wise Fool.
I do not fear Harry Potter. I fear what I will become beneath him—and I am
beneath him now. I am his utterly, and that disturbs me less than it should. I
could sooner cut off my own hands than deny him; all the more reason to keep my
vigil from a distance. A long, safe distance. However much or however little I
ever served Albus, for better or worse, I now follow his lead. And he is
leading us all down into oblivion.
I do not know what to do any longer. It is not I who has gone mad—it is the
world. How then can I survive?
“You should eat more, Severus. You’ve only drunk your wine; you know that’s not
good for you.”
I pour myself another glass of merlot and stare at the fire.
“You know that’s not good for you.”
Leave me alone, Albus.
I drink more than I should—I know that—but I rarely get drunk. I also know that
Albus carefully monitors how much liquor I take on a daily basis and (though
he’d never admit it), he is behind the times when my liquor cabinet turns up
mysteriously bare for several days. He’s a nosey old bastard, even if he is a
well-intentioned one.
I raise my glass to the disinterested fireplace and toast the flames. “To
meddling, senile fools, Muggle Hunts, and supple young boys.” A log pops in the
fire, chastising me for my poor taste. I drain the glass and pour myself
another.
“You should talk to him, Severus. Everyone else has tried. The young man
responds to you.”
Oh, if only you knew just how he responds to me, you manipulative,
condescending son of a—
A dull knock on my chamber door rouses me from my uncharitable thoughts and I
turn in my seat, staring stupidly at the entrance for a moment.
’Tis some visitor, I mutter, knocking at my chamber door—only this and nothing
more.
Some part of me is amused by the thought, but the knock sounds again, quieter,
and my amusement vanishes beneath a scowl. I mutter a charm under my breath and
my merlot disappears. I really wanted that fourth glass.
“Come!”
And here I open wide the door.
There is no hesitation, confirming that it’s one of the Slytherins. I sigh and
sit up a bit straighter. It is not an uncommon occasion for a student to come
to me for something after curfew when their housemates are asleep and therefore
unable to either fuss over or harass them. All of the Houses are very
territorial and over protective of their members and, though Slytherins are the
rule rather than the exception to that, my little snakes have no problem with
terrorizing one another within the safety of our dungeons.
Darkness there, and nothing more.
I’m getting too old for this.
Draco Malfoy enters with his usual self-possessed grace and I watch him
critically. He’s attractive, there’s no denying that, but I am not attracted to
him. In fact the very idea of having sex with Draco Malfoy is enough to make
even my stomach turn. It has been the same with every boy in the school. I’ve
watched them this year—watched them all—in the hopes that perhaps some madness
has possessed me. Perhaps I’ve been taken by a demon, or have truly, truly
sunken to the lowest level of depravity possible . . .
But, no.
Though there is no shortage of pretty boy or variety in any of the classes at
Hogwarts, none of them are anything to me but snot-nosed, arrogant, upstart,
ankle-biters. All of them except one. And he is always the exception, isn’t he?
“Sir?”
“Is there something you need, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco’s impassive silver eyes watch me for a moment, contemplating things that
no sixteen year old should have to deal with most likely, and eventually he
turns away. He stares blankly at a bookcase and I frown at the unusual
behavior. Draco inherited a good deal of his mother’s personality, including
her direct and slightly overbearing way of dealing with things. It’s unusual
for him to hesitate after approaching someone, particularly if he initiated the
contact. Though I sometimes truly loath the boy for his terminal pride, pride
which often leads him to do unbelievably stupid things, I cannot help being
amused by his boundless self-confidence. Draco is one of the strongest
Slytherins I’ve met in years. To see that confidence disturbed . . . unnerves
me.
After some moments of silence I shift in my seat to get his attention. “Have a
seat, Mr. Malfoy. Your affect tells me that this may take a while.”
He turns away from an intensive study of my armoire and accepts my invitation
with a curt nod. I watch with hooded eyes as he settles himself. He rearranges
his night robe around himself with unnecessary care, his slipper-clad feet
crossed at the ankles. The fire pops again and I feel a ridiculous urge to tell
it to be silent.
“He’s had a rough time of it, hasn’t he?” Draco’s eyes are fixed on his lap
where his hands rest, fingers interlaced. “Potter, I mean,” he clarifies after
a moment.
“Most likely.” I settle back a bit more comfortably in my armchair. “I do not
concern myself with such things.” Nor should you. I do not say it, but the
message is clear.
Draco continues staring down at his hands. They are large in comparison to
Harry’s. The thought irritates me, so I push it away.
“Things will end badly for him, won’t they?”
“Most likely.” My voice is flat and emotionless. I have come to terms with that
fact. I hate it and I want to reject it, but it is pointless to fight the
inevitable. I always lose.
“My mother asked me to give you something, sir.” I stiffen imperceptibly, but
he does not look up. “Father and I talked before . . .” his voice cracks
pitifully, the only emotion he’s shown since he arrived, “before he—he was
arrested. He told me that there might, perhaps, be choices.”
I tilt my head slightly to the side, measuring him. “We all have choices, Mr.
Malfoy. I was under the impression that your father had been released from
Azkaban in June. He and I . . . met.”
Draco’s eyes remain fixed on his hands. His voice is a whisper. “Father’s not
been well since he came home.”
I watch him silently. That certainly explained some things. Lucius and I have
always had a . . . complex relationship. Never close friends, never outright
enemies, he and I have always walked a fine line. He knows I am a spy; I have
mountains of evidence to prove beyond a doubt that he was and still is a Death
Eater of his own recognizance. Neither of us has ever chosen to act on what we
know—we are both far better at the game than that—but I still cannot help but
feel a bit uneasy.
Is this the day that Lucius decides to play his hand? My own is pitifully weak
at the moment. And if the Malfoy patriarch is no longer fit to make the
family’s decision, then that leaves Narcissa in charge. Though Narcissa is a
brilliant as she is deadly, she is proud and impetuous—if not out and out
emotionally unstable at times—habits that she and her husband have passed on in
abundance to their progeny. For his part, the Malfoy heir looks . . . troubled.
Frightened, perhaps. Though he had been acting oddly this term, I had thought
little of it.
Careless.
I must be losing my touch. This matter with the boy has me far too distracted.
Thank Merlin He has not summoned me since August.
“You said that you had something for me?” I prompt at last.
Steely gray eyes raise and regard me expressionlessly. “A message. It’s
something Father told her. It’s my choice to tell you this.” His eyes flash
suddenly, daring me to challenge him. “Father said so. It’s my choice.”
I remain silent.
“Mother wrote and told me to tell you, ‘Horace is awakening. We’ve bought a new
glass.’”
It is only a lifetime of control that stops me from leaping out of my seat.
Instead, I tilt my head slightly once more and struggle not to swallow the lump
that’s risen in my throat. “Those were the exact words?”
“Verbatim.”
I nod and look away to stare into the flames in silence. Draco watches me with
hard eyes, studying me, searching for some emotion or sign of approval or
disapproval. It is a wasted effort. I know what a risk he’s taken . . .
probably better than he does. But it is because of that risk that I dare not
acknowledge what he has done. Not yet, at least.
A full minute passes before Draco accepts that he will receive nothing more
from me. He stands with atypical awkwardness and hovers anxiously for a moment
before heading towards the door with a “Goodnight, sir” that I barely process.
At the door he pauses, his hand on the handle. I can sense his hesitation and
turn to look at him. He does not turn around. “The Headmaster does a good job
at protecting him, doesn’t he? I’ve seen him . . . friends always on hand.
Staff always watching. He’s in good hands.”
I turn back to the flames, frowning. Draco is right, of course; he’s always
surrounded by people. Always in a crowd. But they’re not with him, only
surrounding him. The teachers, the staff, the Order . . . He’s even got himself
quite a lovely army among the students—and the name D.A notwithstanding, they
follow Harry, not anyone else. Yes, we’ve done a fine job protecting him; he’s
very safe.
Very safe and very overwhelmed.
“Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy.”
The door closes silently behind the child and I release a breath I hadn’t known
I’ve been holding.
I’ll not complete my grading tonight.
I cannot bring myself to care.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** The Wary Crown *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                                ~ Chapter Two ~
                                The Wary Crown
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                “For the house of Israel and the house of Judah
           have dealt very treacherously against me, saith the Lord.
                      They have belied the Lord and said,
                It is not he; neither shall evil come upon us;
                    neither shall we see sword, nor famine:
                      And the prophets shall become wind,
                         and the word is not in them:
                       thus shall it be done unto them.
                  Wherefore thus saith the Lord God of hosts,
                      Because ye speak this word, behold,
         I will make my words in thy mouth fire, and this people wood,
                          and it shall devour them.”
                             - Jeremiah 5:11 – 14
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Dumbledore had decided, in his mysteriously effective unilateral way, that
Trelawney and Firenze would alternate the days they each taught classes. Thus
it was that Harry and Ron found themselves sitting in Trelawney’s old, poorly
lit tower, inhaling the thick, incense-laden air. Not one to be outdone by an
“over-grown horse,” the flaky Divinations Professor had decided to kick off the
year with Tribal Divination.
After over four weeks of chicken bones, animal blood, two moonlight dances
(fully clothed, despite the old bat’s complaints, thank Merlin), and various
types of innards, most of the students couldn’t wait to start Tarot readings.
Much to his year mates’ surprise, Harry had actually gotten a head start on
Tarot, selecting a deck and starting his journal, and had now worked his way up
to the Woven spread. When asked, the boy had merely shrugged and muttered, “I
like it,” before turning back to his book.
Harry had also been reading more often. A lot more often. And he hadn’t really
been talking to anyone, either. Ron and Hermione were trying to give him his
space, but—
“Now class, we have spent the last two periods discussing the merits of the
Vision Quest. The pipes that Professor Sprout—the poor dear—has been so kind to
prepare for you will aid in you in your spiritual journey. I want all of those
who will be traveling the Misty Beyond today to try to remember your lessons
and allow the vision to flow. Partners, it will be your job to closely monitor
our wanderers and report to them the physical appearance of their soul’s
journey. Now, I want one of you to pick up the pipe and inhale deeply three
times.”
Ron eyed the smoking pipe laying on their table warily as Trelawney drifted
around the room, simpering in her muted tones as she tried to coax people to
smoke the odd-smelling pipes. “So what is this stuff called again?”
Harry looked up from his textbook and grinned faintly at the look of
trepidation on his best friend’s face. “Professor Sprout made it. It’s not
peyote, but it has the same general affect—minus the days of running about the
woods starkers.”
“Riiiiiight . . .” The redhead settled back in his chair and his eyes flickered
back to Harry. He briefly felt a twinge of guilt as he watched the other boy
read and looked back to the blue smoke that had begun to float about the
classroom from the various pipes. Maybe ‘Mione was wrong. Maybe they were going
about things poorly . . .
Ron frowned as Harry turned the page. Harry would be the one to go on the Quest
today. Next class it would be Ron. The redhead hadn’t wanted it to be that way,
but Trelawney had insisted. Personally, Ron didn’t think it was a good idea. He
and Hermione would be the ones left to pick up the pieces if something went
wrong.
And lately everything had been going wrong.
Green eyes flickered up to meet blue ones and Harry offered his friend a faint
half smile. “Alright?”
Ron grinned in reply and leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Harry. “So
what? We just get hopped up on blue smoke until we see the stuff that we want?”
Harry snickered over the top of his textbook.
“Actually, Mr. Weasley, you rarely see what you want.” Trelawney swooped down
onto their table with a bat impression that would have done Snape proud. Her
enormous insect-like eyes latched onto Harry and she leaned forward,
suffocating them with her heavy perfume. “You rarely see what you want,” she
repeated in a misty voice. “But you always see what you need.”
She plucked the pipe off the table and held it out to the green-eyed wizard.
“Well, Mr. Potter?”
Ron scowled. “I—”
“Alright.” Harry reached out and took the pipe. He smiled at Ron. “You ready?”
Trelawney turned away to the rest of the class. “Now on the count of three,
everyone. One.”
Ron dug out a quill hurriedly as Harry raised the pipe to his lips. “You’re
sure about this, mate?”
“Two.”
Harry nodded and exhaled deeply.
“Three.”
Harry’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in deeply; once, twice, three times.
Immediately the world began to sway sickeningly. The perfume in the air was too
intense, too cloying, and it felt like his stomach was trying to crawl up his
esophagus. The temperature seemed to drop and when he coughed, his chest burned
painfully.
“You alright, mate? Harry? Harry?!”
He was spinning—falling.
Ron?
Was this supposed to be happening?
“Harry . . . Professor . . .!”
Down . . .
Down . . .
Down . . .
Falling . . .
 
 
Harry opened his eyes slowly.
He was lying on a cold stone floor on his back, stark naked. Above him wheeled
a thousand stars, but he couldn’t find any constellations that he knew. A bird
cried somewhere in the distance: “Find me. Find me.” There was no moon. The
stones of the floor . . . ground were poorly fitted together and dug painfully
into his flesh. It was cold and he was somewhat embarrassed to find himself
sporting an erection, despite the fact that he didn’t feel the least bit
aroused. So much for the starkers part . . .
Blushing furiously, Harry pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and looked
around cautiously. All that he could see was an uneven field of stones
stretching out to the end of his sight. There was no horizon, only a thin line
where the starry sky met the ground.
“You are quite late, boy. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Decide.”
Harry jumped at the sound of the voice and whirled around, hands lowered to
cover his nudity. He blinked out into the empty night. There was no one there.
“You’re late!” the voice repeated peevishly. It sounded tired. Perhaps it was
angry. “Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Hurry.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. He knew that voice . . .
“When are you going to learn? We’re running out of time!”
The boy looked around in a fruitless attempt to discover the source of the
voice. “Hello?”
“Time! Time!” it continued. Either the speaker couldn’t hear him, or it was
ignoring him. “There is no time, boy! Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose now!”
Harry turned again and glared at the empty night. “Who’s there?”
“What will you give, boy? An eye? A hand? Your very life? And for what? Do you
think that they will weep for you when you sit by Hel’s hearth? Choose!”
“Who’s there?”
“Well, go on then! I have said my piece! You’ve made your bed; now lie in it.
But don’t expect pity from me! Pick the path, if you’ll do nothing else. Hu.
Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose while you have a choice, boy.”
“Wait! I don’t understand what you mean!” Harry turned in a slow circle, trying
to catch the voice’s owner. “Who are you? Where are you?”
The voice did not answer again and Harry growled in anger, momentarily
forgetting his discomfort. He tried to remember what Trelawney said about dream
symbolism, but class suddenly seemed distant and unimportant.
This is only a dream, he reminded himself. A wind blew and, dream or no, it was
damn cold against his bare skin.
Harry shivered, once more mindful of his state of undress, and began to walk.
He didn’t recognize any of the constellations and time didn’t seem to move, so
he had no idea of where he was going or how far he was walking. He hummed as he
went, some old Christmas tune that Aunt Petunia liked to sing every June. Harry
didn’t remember all the words, though, and the last line seemed to consistently
elude his memory. For some reason that irritated him more than it should have.
Occasionally he heard the bird crying in the distance. “Find me. Find me.” But
the wind distorted and carried the sound in such a way that it was impossible
to identify the source. There were no trees on which a bird could perch and no
clouds in the sky to hide anything, yet the bird’s location remained a mystery.
Harry began to sing loudly as he walked, increasingly desperate to drown out
the creature’s distant, insistent cries.
“Angels we have heard on high—”
“Find me. Find me.”
“Singing sweetly o’er the plains,”
“Find me. Find me.”
Harry began to sing a bit more loudly. “And the mountains in reply—”
“Find me. Find me.”
“Echoing their . . . something something—”
“Find me. Find me.”
Abruptly Harry stopped, irritated by his lack of progress, his inability to
remember the words, and the bird’s insistent cries.
“Where are you?”
The night did not reply and once more the boy found himself growling in
frustration at his apparent isolation.
“Where are you?” This time his voice was a whisper. The bird still did not
respond, but now he knew that that was only because he was talking to himself.
Harry dropped his head and stared blankly at the cracked, starved ground
beneath his bare feet. The wind blew once more and he sighed. “I don’t think
this stuff is working,” he reported to the earth.
He shivered at another gust and for the briefest instant he thought he heard
someone laughing and whisper somewhere nearby. “I am no easy meat.”
The sound made his skin crawl and he immediately resumed walking, refusing to
look behind him to see if there really was anyone there. “This is only a
dream.”
He didn’t stop again for a long time.
Eventually, though, Harry’s legs began to get tired. His feet hurt. Yet he
continued going. Somehow walking seemed better than staying still. He had the
distinct impression that staying still would be exceptionally bad. Trust your
instincts, he remembered Trelawney’s misty voice saying. So he kept moving. It
could have been an hour or a day. In any case, it hardly seemed to matter; the
landscape never changed and the sky grew neither lighter nor darker to indicate
the end of the night. Finally, the boy stopped, annoyed, and looked around once
more, searching for any indication of progress.
It was a futile effort.
“Bloody marvelous Vision Quest this is. I’ve had more fun watching Death Eater
meetings.” He flinched as soon as the words left his mouth and the wind blew
again as though to chastise him.
“Little boy lost?”
For the second time, Harry jumped in alarm and once again jerked to hide his
nudity. This time, however, when he whirled around, there was definitely a name
to put to the voice. It was Dumbledore.
The Headmaster stood a few yards away from him, swathed from head to toe in
robes so black, he looked more like a man-shaped hole cut into the night than
an actual person. A heavy hood hid his face completely and his hands were
tucked into the sleeves of his robes in the old fashion of monks and druids.
“Sir?” Harry squinted and took a step forward, suddenly acutely aware that he
did not have his glasses. How had he not noticed that before? “Sir?”
It was terribly cold suddenly.
“Little boy lost?” the old man repeated, hissing slightly.
Harry froze. That was not Dumbledore.
“How,” the figure continued, “do you expect to get there if you don’t know
where you’re going?”
The boy swallowed hard. “Voldemort . . .” His body seemed to twist in the wind
of its own volition, frantic to conceal itself. It was terribly humiliating to
be aroused in front of this man. Harry hadn’t really thought to be embarrassed
before, but now he simply wished that the earth would swallow him whole.
“Silly child. Do you know nothing yet?”
The hissing tone to the voice hadn’t vanished, but somehow Harry knew that the
man was not Voldemort. Nor was he Dumbledore . . . He was both. And neither.
Harry didn’t understand, but he desperately wanted to see the man’s face. For
reasons that he didn’t know, it seemed terribly important to recognize this man
for what he was. Harry took an uncertain step forward.
The man spoke again, ignoring the boy’s action. “Poor Barabas. Hu. Sia. Heka.
Nun. Where are you going, boy? You can only choose one path. Hu. Sia. Heka.
Nun. Choose.”
Harry stopped a foot or two away from the man. “Who are you?”
The man seemed to sneer beneath his hood. “Why do you ask me questions, boy,
when you are the one with all the answers? Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose,
Barabas.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists. He’d had enough of this. He wanted to wake
up now. “That’s not my name.”
“Does it matter what your name is, boy? Barabas? You are the formless void. Now
choose or the choice will be made for you.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking of me!”
“Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun,” the man repeated. He sounded like he was laughing.
Harry snarled and lunged forward. He half expected the man to jerk away or
strike him, but it was shockingly simple to grab the man’s hood and jerk it
back to reveal—
Himself.
Harry froze.
The dark-cloaked Harry smiled down at himself, a bizarre parody of human
expression, and wrapped his arms around his other self’s waist, pulling the
naked boy close. “Poor Barabas. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose.”
The other, younger Harry, the Harry who was naked and shivering and lacked the
empty, insane deadlights that shone through his twin’s eyes, gaped and tried to
pull away in revulsion. “What the hell is this?”
“Choose.”
The man smelled sickening—the cloying, sweet odor of something rotted and
decaying. Harry began to struggle wildly, unable to bear that scent or the feel
of those cold, clammy arms wrapped around him. “Let me go.” His voice came out
as a weak gasp; he couldn’t breathe. “Please . . .”
“Choose.”
A scream began to build within him and the older figure pulled him tighter, his
leg sliding between Harry’s in a twisted parody of lust. A shock of pain went
through him as the leg came in contact with his genitals.
“Choose . . .” the man hissed and Harry suddenly realized why the other’s voice
sounded like hissing and why the other voices had not answered him: he was
speaking in parseltongue.
“Choose!” the man barked, squeezing him tighter.
“Sirius!” The wail leapt from his lips before he could contain it and Harry’s
head tipped back, searching the heavens for a sign that he could not see.
It was cold.
Drawing on nothing but adrenaline, Harry kneed his alter-image in the groin,
suddenly thankful for all the experience Dudley had given him when it came to
escaping. The creature shrieked and threw him down, immediately crumpling into
a protective ball. Harry stumbled back, unable to stand again, but frantic to
escape this horrid creature that was not—could not—be him.
“There is a snake within your belly, boy,” the man hissed suddenly from his
position on the ground. A gnarled hand snaked out and grabbed his ankle.
“Let me go!”
“There is a snake in your belly, boy,” it snarled again. “And he is trying to
get out.”
“Let me go!!!” Harry kicked viciously at the thing’s head, only the face that
snapped up to glare at him was no longer his own.
It was Petunia Dursley. And she was painted like a circus clown.
Harry took one look at that face (which had never seemed as cruel or insane as
it did right then) and lashed out. There was no grace or skill involved; he
fought like a wild animal cornered, with teeth and claws, and snarls and as
soon as the grip on his ankle let up, he fled. Harry stumbled to his feet and
ran blindly into the night, not daring to look behind him, lest he see that
awful, bloated face coming in pursuit. The air smelled sickeningly like sugar,
rot, and burnt bacon fat.
“Harry?”
Wakeupwakeupwakeup.
Tea and roses. Wormwood and soot.
“Harry!”
Wakeupwakeupwakeup. He couldn’t focus like Dumbledore had taught him and it was
so cold and he couldn’t concentrate and Trelawney had lied and he couldn’t wake
up and—
Arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him up off the ground in mid stride. His
back impacted hard with a strong, unyielding chest and the fetid scent of death
gave way to blood, chamomile, and peaches.
Severus.
All Harry’s resistance melted and his panic gave way to an exhausted kind of
relief as he slumped backwards. “Anhur.” He meant to say ‘Severus,’ but all
that he could think was ‘Anhur.’
“Anhur. Anhur,” he whispered breathlessly as leaned back into the comfort of
familiar dark robes.
He pulled himself out of his Professor’s grip and whirled around to embrace the
older man. He felt something cold and metal press into his left hand and a
strange, biting warmth pooled in his stomach as he threw himself forward, but
by this point in time he simply didn’t care. Severus was here. With him. And he
wasn’t angry anymore.
Something hard was between them, preventing the embrace. Harry pulled back
slightly and looked down, bewildered. Clutched tight in his left hand was the
hilt the Sword of Gryffindor. The blade was buried in Severus’s abdomen.
“Wha . . .” A choked moan left Harry as he stared down at the bloody length of
silver. Panicked green eyes looked up, desperately seeking Severus, but instead
of finding the hard, familiar planes and bold, over accentuated angles of the
man’s face, Severus appeared pale and waxen.
Harry whimpered. The hand holding the Sword refused to let go. “I . . . I don’t
. . .”
Severus lifted an eyebrow and his lips twitched towards what could have been a
smile. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of you.” A long, potions-stained hand
raised to gently brush his cheek. As the fingers touched his skin, they turned
to dust.
Severus turned to dust.
“Anhur!”
“I’ve got you.” The wind blew again and before the words had even fully left
his mouth, the other man dissolved into an angry cloud that spread itself
across the plains.
The green-eyed teen stared, shocked.
“I’ve got you.” Severus’s words hung in the air like an epitaph.
“No . . .” The sword clattered to the ground. His hand was covered in blood.
Harry looked down with a distant growing horror. He was bleeding. Badly. The
sword had pierced Severus, but he had stabbed himself.
Thick red blood flowed steadily down his front, over his now lax penis, and
soaked into the dusty gray stones. Severus was a part of that dust . . .
A sigh left Harry’s lips, taking the sound of a quiet “Oh . . .” and his legs
folded gracefully beneath him.
Severus was a part of that dust. He didn’t mind so much, knowing that.
As he fell to the ground, suddenly, insignificantly, the forgotten line from
the Christmas carol came back to him. Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun.
And then everything melted into darkness.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Draco started awake as he heard footsteps and voices entering the hospital
wing. The motion sent an agonizing throb through his head, but he barely took
notice of it. With Crabbe and Goyle as Beaters and Draco occupied with finding
the Snitch, accidents were bound to happen. Eventually, one even got used to
them.
The sound grew more distinct as Draco shook off the final layers of sleep and
sat up in his enclosed bed.
“Good heavens! What happened?” Madame Pomfrey demanded.
“We don’t know!” The Weasely. “We followed all the instructions—”
“Step back, boy, back! He’s going into convulsions!”
Shuffling. Footsteps. The sound of a gurney being wheeled somewhere. Choked
gasps. Bottles clinking. And then . . .
“ANHUR!!!”
Draco cringed at the cry. It was a sound of mourning: the cry of one utterly
bereft and torn by anguish. His mother had sobbed like that when his father had
been imprisoned and she thought he was asleep. He hated the sound.
“What’s wrong with him?” The Weasel once more.
Draco stood, swaying slightly beneath a wave of dizziness, and gently pushed
aside the hospital curtain to peer out. Weasley and a girl that Draco barely
recognized were hovering anxiously near a bed. They blocked the blond’s sight
of the occupant, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Potter was now
the infirmary’s latest guest.
“Run and get Professor Snape, boy! Tell him I need him to tailor a HemoPurge
potion to Potter immediately. And don’t you let Filch get in your way!”
“But—”
“Now!” the petite mediwitch barked.
Weasley took off at record speed and Madame Pomfrey continued to putter around
the bed that held Potter’s thrashing form. The girl who had accompanied the two
Gryffindors was whimpering pathetically.
After securing Potter to the gurney, Pomfrey looked up at the young woman with
a tight expression of anger. “Ms. Patel, you will go fetch that . . . that
woman from her tower and you will bring both her and the Headmaster down here
immediately.”
Patel shuddered as though she was about to fall over. “But, Madam Pomfrey,
Professor Trelawney—”
“Is a menace!” the older woman snapped. “Every year, sobbing Third Years coming
to me in a panic! Now this? I will not stand for it! You will bring her down
here along with Headmaster Dumbledore and she will face up to this! NOW!”
Draco couldn’t contain his amusement as the girl squeaked in fear and tore out
of the hospital wing at a dead run. He had never seen Pomfrey so worked up,
even when that idiot Lockheart had removed Potter’s bones. Whatever had
happened must have put a real bee in her bonnet.
The door to the hospital wing opened with a bang and Snape swirled in, looking
intensely irritated. Weasley came skulking in behind him, his face a pasty
white color. Snape was scowling thunderously, and he immediately made his way
to Potter’s bedside. Draco’s eyes narrowed at the furious expression on the
other man’s face.
“What happened?” his Head of House demanded, his deep voice rolling in a way
that simply demanded attention. He took in a sharp breath when he looked down
at the Gryffindor.
At last Madame Pomfrey moved, allowing Draco a clear view of Potter’s face. The
normally pale skin had a strange bluish hue and Potter’s breath came in a
wispy, choked gasps. His lips were parted and the tip of his tongue protruded
slightly as though it was too large for his mouth. A thin sheen of sweat
covered his face, augmenting his deathly pallor, and strange red welts with
white centers had arisen on the boy’s skin. Madame Pomfrey had secured his arms
to the bed so that he could not thrash about and cause himself harm.
Weasely apparently had also caught sight of Potter because he immediately made
an odd choking noise.
Madame Pomfrey didn’t even turn around to look at him. “Return to your Common
Room, Mr. Weasley.”
“But—”
Snape turned on him with a snarl. “Fifty points from Gryffindor. Go!”
Draco would have given a good deal to see the man’s expression because Weasely
took one look and shot out of the hospital wing once more. Snape wheeled around
to the busy mediwitch and favored her with a particularly frightful glare.
“Poppy, what happened?” he snapped, sounding more agitated than usual.
“What happened,” the mediwitch fairly snarled, “was that charlatan, that’s what
happened! She sent him into anaphylactic shock, that’s what happened!” She
grabbed hold of one of Potter’s arms and pressed a small glass vial against the
vein. “Did you bring the potion? Get me that anti-inflammatory over there,” she
demanded, nodding towards a corner before Snape could reply. “His tongue and
lips have swollen. How much blood do you need?”
Snape moved over to the cabinet and fished out a blue potion with surprising
speed. “Yes. And an ounce and a quarter.”
Pomfrey muttered a spell and the little vial in her hand began to fill with
blood. Snape set the anti-inflammatory down and removed a small Erlenmeyer
flask filled with a clear fluid from his robes. He tugged off the stopper,
poured in the vial of blood that Pomfrey thrust at him, and watched with a
critical eye as the mixture immediately turned a sickly green color. While he
swirled the fluid about in the flask, Pomfrey set about trying to coax some of
the anti-inflammatory into Potter’s swollen mouth and down his throat without
choking him.
Snape moved to the head of the bed and pressed a hand against Potter’s forehead
to keep him still. “He’s cold.”
“He’s in shock,” Madame Pomfrey responded curtly. “Stupid woman. Prop him up
very gently for me, Severus. I don’t need him to asphyxiate on us. Careful now!
That’s right . . .”
The Potions Master obeyed, settling down on the bed so that he could better
support the small figure in his arms. Draco avidly watched the drama through
his barely parted curtains. Gently, Pomfrey coaxed the blue fluid down Potter’s
throat with a minimum of gasps and choking. A bit of the sapphire colored mix
slipped down the teen’s cheeks and chin to stain the bed and Snape’s robes. The
older man seemed not to notice, completely absorbed in the pinched, sickly face
resting on his chest.
“That’s a good lad,” Madame Pomfrey cooed to the unconscious boy. Once she was
satisfied with the amount Potter had swallowed, she moved to the foot of the
bed and propped up his feet.
“Stay there, Severus!” she snapped when the man shifted.
Snape frowned. “Is it safe enough to wake him to take the HemoPurge?”
“It’s safer than letting him suffocate on the fluid building up in his lungs.”
She whipped out her wand, ignoring the ferocious glare her colleague leveled at
her, and pointed it at Potter. “Enervate.”
The boy shifted feebly and Snape held stock-still. Draco leaned forward a bit,
parting the curtain a bit wider so that he could watch Potter’s swollen green
eyes flutter open painfully and lock with Snape’s.
“Anhur?”
Snape blinked, looking perplexed at his student’s words. Pomfrey bustled up,
once more blocking Draco’s view.
“He’s delirious,” she said as she pressed the flask against Potter’s lips.
“Drink,” she ordered when it looked as though her patient were struggling.
“Anhur . . .”
Snape gripped Potter a bit more securely and shifted so that Draco could no
longer see his face. “Drink it, Potter. It will make you feel better.”
There were a few more moments of silence as Pomfrey poured the potion down
Potter’s throat.
Just as Madame Pomfrey stood upright again, the door opened once more to admit
Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney. The Divinations professor was
pale and agitated looking, her hair appearing haphazard from rushing down from
her tower, her shawl and numerous beads in disarray. Dumbledore entered at her
heels, for once looking less than effervescent.
Shockingly blue eyes latched onto the bed that Draco occupied and stared at the
young Slytherin’s hiding spot. Draco froze, painfully embarrassed that his
spying had been discovered, and Dumbledore smiled at him gently. The blond
immediately closed his curtains and slipped back into bed. He lay down quietly,
careful to make no sound.
“Is he alright?” he heard Dumbledore ask.
“No thanks to her,” snarled Pomfrey. Draco could only imagine the expression on
the matronly woman’s face. “If it wasn’t for Severus—”
“I did nothing wrong!” Trelawney broke in shrilly. She sounded oddly the way
she had when Umbridge had tried to cast her out. “He was fine when we tested
the mix and his records—”
“Allergies rarely manifest on the first exposure,” raged Pomfrey in response.
“And his records are incomplete. I told you—”
“Now, now, now, ladies,” interrupted Dumbledore in a soothing voice, “perhaps
we had best move this to my office—”
“The only other student here is a Seeker who took a bludger to the head during
practice, Headmaster, and he’ll be out for at least another—”
“Still,” the man insisted in a no-nonsense tone, “I must insist that we do not
disturb the students’ rest. Severus?”
Snape, who had remained strangely silent until now, didn’t answer immediately.
Draco desperately wished he could see what the man was doing.
“Is everything well?” Dumbledore asked.
“Quite, Headmaster,” Snape responded coolly. It sounded as though he had moved.
“Shall I . . .?” His voice trailed off suggestively and Draco gripped his
bedclothes, frustrated with his inability to figure out what was happening.
“That’s quite alright, my boy,” Dumbledore responded congenially. “Thank you
for your aid. Ladies, if you will please follow me?”
There was the sound of footsteps and then the door opened and closed, leaving
Draco alone in silence. After a few more moment, the blond Slytherin arose from
bed and crept towards the curtain again. When he eased them aside, he was
shocked to see that Snape was still there.
The Potions Master was standing next to Potter’s bed, staring down at the boy
with an expression as intense as any Draco had ever seen the man wear. One
pale, stained hand was resting on Potter’s forehead, the thumb gently gliding
back and forth over the famous scar. Draco stared, hardly daring to breath,
lest he be discovered. The hand on Potter’s face lifted after a moment and
Snape turned to gently pull the covers over Potter’s thin body.
Suddenly coal black eyes snapped up and bore into Draco. Snape straightened,
his face completely devoid of emotion and his hands frozen in place where they
were adjusting Potter’s covers more comfortably. The Slytherin hesitated under
his professor’s gaze and then lifted the curtain fully, revealing himself to
the older man. He felt terribly awkward to be in his hospital clothes under the
Snape’s unforgiving stare.
“Mr. Malfoy.” It was an acknowledgement—nothing more, nothing less.
“Sir.”
For a long moment the two stared at one another across the room, neither
willing to break eye contact. Finally Draco looked away, ashamed of the
weakness but unable to bear the man’s scrutiny a moment longer. Satisfied with
his victory, Snape smoothed the covers seemingly without noticing and walked
around Potter’s bed. His black robes swirled menacingly about him as he strode
towards his student. Draco seemed to cringe slightly, barely resisting the urge
to shy back, and looked back up as the man approached. Black eyes locked onto
silver ones and they stared at one another once more for a moment. Then a
potion-stained hand reached out and closed the curtain again, effectively
shutting Draco out again.
Draco swallowed hard and lay back down. The door closed quietly a moment later
and for a long while afterward Draco stared at the crisp, white curtains and
wondered.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** The Khurban *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                               ~ Chapter Three ~
                                  The Khurban
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                “And when thou art spoiled, what wilst thou do?
                  Though thou clothest thyself with crimson,
               though thou deckest thee with ornaments of gold,
                  though thou rentest thy face with painting,
                     in vain shalt thou make thyself fair;
             thy lovers will despise thee, thy will seek thy life.
              For I have heard a voice as of a woman in travail,
          and the anguish of her that bringest forth her first child,
                      the voice of the daughter of Zion,
           that bewaileth herself, that spreadeth her hands, saying,
         Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied because of murderers.”
                             - Jeremiah 4:30 & 31
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“Are you quite sure you’re feeling well, my boy?”
Harry smiled up at his mentor, a slightly pained expression. Truth be told, he
had felt rather dizzy all day and was actually looking forward to returning to
the peace of the hospital wing tonight, despite all the fuss he’d made to
attend classes.
One of Professor Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows lifted at the obviously false
smile. “Now, Harry—” the old man began.
The green-eyed teen shook his head and pushed himself up from where he’d been
leaning on the desk. “I’m alright, sir. Honest. Just let me rest a moment . .
.”
Dumbledore watched him for a moment in silence, his piercing blue eyes taking
in everything from the pale complexion to the shallow breathing. The old man
sighed quietly, lowered his wand, and walked around to his desk. He gingerly
lowered his frame into the velvet-lined high-backed seat. Harry sighed heavily
at the look on the Headmaster’s face. It was the “Let’s Have a Talk, Child”
look. After three months of Occlumency lessons, Harry knew that look well.
“Sit down, Harry.”
For a moment the boy simply looked at him as though debating what to do. Albus
frowned sadly. “Please?”
Harry closed his eyes and turned away as he sat.
For a long moment there was nothing but silence, broken only by the crackle of
the fire and the dull clicking of a clock that Harry couldn’t locate. Albus
knew by now that tea and cookies would not assuage Harry, so he made no move to
offer them.
The Headmaster sighed. Dealing with Harry Potter was something akin to grasping
an ice cube: the tighter he held on, the more the boy seemed to slip through
his hands. He had hoped to have a successor in the headstrong boy, but now that
was looking less and less likely. Voldemort’s rebirth was unanticipated, as
were Cedric’s and Sirius’s deaths. Both had impacted his protégé much harder
than he would have wished. Harry was too young for the pain that bowed his
shoulders—too young to carry the burdens placed on him.
This was something Albus understood intimately, something that he himself had
dealt with in his own youth. He would have spared Harry that if he could have,
but such things were not to be. And now Voldemort was back and with every
passing year, Harry’s chance of survival seemed to lessen. Should Voldemort
succeed in killing Harry, Albus did not believe he’d long outlive his Golden
Boy. He did not believe he’d want to.
The old man frowned at the youth’s profile. The light of the fire cast weird
shadows over Harry’s face and Albus felt a distinct pull at his heart.
No.
He had not lied to the boy—he loved Harry like a grandson. And he would do
everything possible to see that the child survived this war. There were too
many casualties in this war already; Harry would not become one as well. He
wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow that to happen. Ever. Harry Potter would succeed him.
He had failed Tom; he would not fail another—especially not this child who had
somehow managed to find a place in his heart. It had been a very long time
since Albus had had anyone whom he could sincerely look upon as family and he
would not give it up so easily. He would not fail Harry, or Harry Potter again.
The boy could not be allowed to die. No matter what.
“Are you still angry with me, Harry?”
Avada Kedavra green eyes stared at him for a moment before looking away. “Does
it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“Really?” the boy murmured, gazing into the flames.
Albus closed his eyes sadly. “Harry . . . My dear child . . . Is there nothing
I can do to make you forgive me?” It was not the first time he’d asked that
question. It would not be the last.
The boy turned and frowned at the Headmaster. Something inside Albus ached at
the dark smudges beneath his eyes. “Why does it matter so much to you?” He
didn’t sound angry—just weary. “I’m doing what you want, aren’t I? I’m learning
Occlumency. I’ve been studying more like you said I should. What more do you
want?”
The old man pursed his lips unhappily. “I want you forgive me.”
“Why?” Harry demanded again.
“Because I care.”
This response only earned him a slightly skeptical look. Harry turned back to
the fire.
Albus tried again. “I worry about you.”
“You worry about the cause. Or is that merely the same thing now?”
“They’re not the same thing, child,” the old man replied with genuine
earnestness. “They never were. I do care for you, Harry. You. Not the hero and
not the legend. Just you.”
Harry still did not look away from the fireplace. “Hmph.” The reflection of the
fire danced on the surface of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “I’ll do what
you want,” he said lowly after an instant. “But don’t act like you’re doing
this for me, okay? I . . . I don’t really mind . . . not if you don’t act like
you’re doing this for me. It’s for the cause. I get that. But don’t keep on
acting like you care about me. It’s stupid.”
Again, not angry—simply tired.
So tired.
For a moment the two were silent, Harry watching the flames and Albus watching
Harry.
Albus settled back in his chair. He looked older than he was, more worn down by
his years than even he should be. Harry did not look away from the fire.
Fawkes, who had watched the entire exchange in silence, alit from his perch to
settle on the back of the Headmaster’s chair. An aged hand rose and stroked the
bird’s red plumage.
“Harry . . .” The boy stiffened and Albus broke off, looking frustrated.
“Don’t,” the Gryffindor said to the flames. “You’ve used Legumens on me. You’ve
seen it all. You don’t need to ask me these questions, do you?”
The old man leaned forward a bit, but made no other movement. “Will you not
tell me what is troubling you then, child?”
Those green eyes turned back to him and watched him once more in their sad
silence. Finally Harry released a huffing little sigh. “It’s my problem. You
can’t help me with it.”
Albus nodded in acceptance. Just like holding ice. He opened his mouth to say
something, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a rather flustered looking
McGonagall. The Head of Gryffindor was leaning heavily on her cane, a sure sign
that she was distressed. It was a well-known fact that the Transfigurations
professor hated the cane with a passion and she only carried it with her when
it was absolutely necessary.
The woman dashed into the room breathlessly, seemingly unaware of Harry.
“Albus, that idiot is at it again! I swear, if he didn’t learn his lesson after
that debacle at the Department of Myst—”
The Headmaster cleared his throat suddenly, interrupting her. “Now, Minerva . .
. I’m sure it can’t be that serious. Won’t you join us for tea?”
Bluish gray eyes flickered to Harry and Professor McGonagall blushed slightly.
“Potter.” She smiled tensely. “I’m sorry. I forgot that this was your teatime.”
Teatime. The Order’s official euphemism for “Keep Potter Sane and On Our Side”
time. Harry was not stupid. He knew what could happen if he failed to master
Occlumency. So far, he’d learned little and was beginning to wonder if he’d
ever master the damnable art. The Headmaster said that he had a block. All he
knew was that the whole process just gave him migraines.
Harry offered the Deputy Headmistress a tense smile of his own in response.
“It’s alright, ma’am. Really.”
McGonagall turned back to the Headmaster. “May I borrow you for a moment then?”
“Of course. Harry?”
The boy nodded his assent.
The old man rose with a blinding smile and made his way around his desk with
surprising grace. He paused at Harry’s chair and gently placed hand on the
young Gryffindor’s shoulder. Sterling blue eyes locked onto vivid green ones.
“If you are having a difficult time, you may want to make a list.”
Harry blinked in confusion. “Make a list?”
The old man smiled a small, genuine smile just for him. “Yes. A list of the
good things and the bad things to help you sort matters out.”
“The good things and the bad things?” Harry’s lips thinned in suspicion. “Do
you know what my problem is, sir?”
“We can only truly know what we see or are told, child.”
“And what have you seen?”
For a moment the two simply stared at one another in silence. Then Albus gently
squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I see something that could be everything. If such
things are allowed.”
The boy’s eyes widened and his jaw went a bit slack. His Adam’s apple bobbed as
he swallowed. “A—are . . . such things allowed?”
Albus smiled and squeezed his shoulder once more. “I should not be gone long. I
trust you will not go poking about where you should not, Harry.” His eyes
twinkled brightly as he said this, as though attempting to brand the
significance of the words onto the boy’s soul.
“Albus, the Minister . . .” McGonagall prodded gently. Her sharp eyes flickered
between the boy and the old man quizzically, but she said nothing. Whatever
problems Albus and Potter had were theirs to iron out, and she had been told
with no small amount of firmness that this was one affair in which she had no
say.
Albus stood. “Of course, Professor McGonagall. Lead on, my dear.”
Harry watched in silence as the old man smiled again and left, speaking to his
deputy headmistress in hushed tones as he went.
A list? Green eyes narrowed as he turned the Headmaster’s words over in his
mind.
He still had not forgiven Dumbledore for what had happened last year and this
summer. In all honesty, he didn’t know if he could forgive the man. He hid too
much—kept Harry in the dark too much. It was obvious though that his rejection
hurt Dumbledore, even if he never said anything to that affect. Still, Harry
didn’t know whether that downcast look was real or an act. And he didn’t much
care to find out one way or another.
Every week they had “tea” and every week Dumbledore tried to regain his trust.
It was enough to drive a person mad. Even if Harry had wanted to come to terms
with the conniving old man before the so-called Incident at Privet Drive—which
he had not—he most certainly was in no mood to do so afterwards. Harry
shuddered at the memory of what had happened at his relations’ house and
suddenly felt cold.
He hadn’t lost his temper since that day. Dumbledore said that no one would
know—that it was up to him who to tell, if anyone. Dumbledore and Moody
promised that everything would be okay and that there wouldn’t be any
uncomfortable questions. So far he’d kept his promises, but Harry wasn’t
stupid: one day, he’d have to pay the piper, and what then? He shuddered again
and rubbed his arms through his sleeves. He wished he’d thought to ask the
Headmaster to turn up the fire.
Dumbledore had promised him that everything would be alright. Dumbledore had
promised him that he would never, ever, ever, have to go back there . . .
But if the old man really did know about what had happened with Snape, would he
keep his word? Harry knew that he wouldn’t survive very long in Azkaban . . .
He’d go mad in days. Would Dumbledore really let the Ministry send his Golden
Boy to prison—even if he wasn’t so golden? And then there was the prophecy to
contend with. He doubted that the Headmaster would be willing to relinquish him
until Voldemort was dead.
Harry bit his lip and suddenly—stupidly—wished that Severus were there . . . if
only to distract him from these questions.
Dumbledore had promised that everything would be okay.
But did Dumbledore know about Snape? Harry couldn’t imagine the Potions Master
had told him anything. Snape would have been out on his ear faster than a
Malfoy could say “money.” Or maybe the Headmaster wasn’t willing to lose his
spy so soon. Was Snape just like Harry—another pawn in this game to be pushed
around by two stubborn old men until he ceased to be useful?
No. Harry would not forgive Dumbledore. If not for himself or Sirius, then for
Severus. And for his parents. And for Cedric. And even for the Durselys.
The boy worried his lower lip for a few more minutes, staring blankly down at
his hands.
He missed Severus.
And that was so stupid because he had never even known the man long enough to
miss him. He still didn’t know the man. And he didn’t know if he wanted to,
either.
Make a list.
The boy fidgeted in his seat and turned to stare at Fawkes. The phoenix had
returned to his perch at some point in time and had tucked his magnificent head
beneath a wing, asleep. The portraits on the wall dozed in both real and
feigned slumber. Phineas had yet to be in his portrait when Harry was in the
office. The Potter heir was fairly certain that the Headmaster had something to
do with that, but he couldn’t summon the energy to be angry. Anger only got him
into trouble. Besides, he doubted he could handle the sharp-tongued Black
patriarch right then.
A list.
What would it hurt, really?
The Headmaster had only been gone for over five minutes, and, knowing Fudge,
would be gone longer still. The boy bent down and dug about in his satchel for
a quill, ink, and a scroll. Instead he found a sheet of loose-leaf and a
ballpoint. They’d do. He carefully cleared a space on the Headmaster’s desk and
scooted his chair closer so that he could write.
The good things and the bad things . . .? The boy went to tap the edge of the
pen against his chin and frowned when he realized that the Muggle writing tool
was too short. Suddenly uncomfortable with the ballpoint, Harry dug about in
his bag once more with a growl. This time his search was much more successful
and he retrieved his favorite battered eagle feather quill and an inkwell of
blue ink. He opened the well, dipped the quill tip in, and hunched over the
desk as he began his list.
The good and the bad. Him and Severus . . .
The invisible clock ticked loudly as he wrote.
 
__________ _________
.Strong
.Fierce
.Brave
.Protective
.Safe
.Proud
.Brilliant
.Powerful
.Eyes
.Hands
.Cheekbones
.Understands?
.Relentless
.Honorable?
.Sees me
.Reformed?
.Him
.Me
 
_________-_________
Cruel
Arrogant
Stubborn
Secretive
Unfair
Petty
Always has to be right
Childish
Liar
Hair
Nose
Merciless
Pitiless
Unforgiving
Blind
DE
Marauders
Me?
Hides things
Age
Sarcastic
Angry
Impatient
Manipulative
Belittling
Position
Threats / Intimidation
Risk
Him
 
When he couldn’t think of anything else, Harry sat up and stared at his list
with a dark frown. The list of cons was noticeably longer than the pros. His
green eyes flickered back and forth to the ends of each column.
Him. Me. Me? Him.
All the other things aside, that was what it boiled down to in the end. Snape
and Harry and Harry and Snape. Those were honestly both the best and worst
reasons he could find for them to . . . to . . . try.
Try what exactly, he wasn’t certain, but he knew that he wanted to give it a
go.
It was different with Snape. He couldn’t quantify what was different, but,
stupid as it was, that strange embrace . . . that press of lips, it had changed
something. And it sounded so dumb when he thought of it like that, but it
couldn’t be avoided. Even when the man was giving him hell, there was something
about it that made Harry feel more . . . alive. It was . . . fun . . . in a
strange way. If something like that could be called fun.
Harry nibbled on the tip of his quill.
It was unique. It was just something that Harry wanted. He didn’t need it. It
wasn’t like air or water or food. It was . . . a different kind of want. It was
like when he wasn’t hungry, but he still wanted food. Or he wasn’t thirsty, but
he still wanted something to drink. He had air, but it wasn’t enough.
He wanted Snape.
He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t explain it. Even thinking about trying to
figure it out was enough to give him a migraine, but he wanted Snape.
Not for sex. Not even for a shoulder to cry on. He wanted him—the whole greasy,
snarky, angry, loveless package.
The quill slid out of his fingers. He didn’t notice.
Snape. The greasy bastard. But that was a while other issue, wasn’t it?
The man was so . . . cruel. And mean. And unfair. And bitter . . . But weren’t
those the things Harry liked best about him? After all, if they were going to
do . . . this . . . then he had to be in it one hundred percent. He couldn’t
just pick and choose those parts that he liked and ignore all the rest. Snape
was . . . well, he wasn’t attractive. And he certainly was not pleasant by any
stretch of the imagination. But he was . . . safe.
Yes.
That was definitely the best word for it. Snape was safe. If he was attracted
to Harry, then he was attracted to Harry, not some god-construct designed by
Dumbledore and the Daily Prophet. And if he thought Harry was worth his . . .
whatever . . ., then he genuinely thought that Harry was worth it. Snape was
not a man for useless romantic sentiment. And Harry just liked being with
Snape. The man was brilliant and funny (once you got past the snark), and
strong and proud. He was not the type of person to be railroaded into doing
things. Harry could no more sway Snape than he could uproot the Whomping Willow
with his bare hands.
But, best of all, Snape neither needed nor wanted a savior. He seemed to be
perfectly happy to dig himself out of his rut all on his own. Even with ‘Mione
and Ron, or in the dorms, or just sitting in class, he could feel people
watching him. Waiting. Expecting. Judging. It was almost as though they thought
they’d miss him killing Voldemort if they blinked. And it was obvious that they
did expect him to defeat Voldemort, something that Harry found absolutely
ludicrous since most of them couldn’t even say the Dark Lord’s name without
nearly wetting themselves.
Bred in captivity.
Harry scowled down at his parchment. But wasn’t that another reason not to get
involved with Snape? All those eyes watching him? The world, Harry had recently
decided, amounted to little more than a pack of ravenous dogs chasing him down;
they would tear him apart the moment he so much as stumbled. And after
Voldemort, if he survived—a very, very, very big ‘if’—what would happen to him?
“Death Eater Takes Advantage of Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-You-Know-Who.”
Or, better yet: “Boy-Who-Lived Replaces You-Know-Who and Takes Death Eater
Professor as Lover.” The story on page three!!
That would look bloody marvelous on the front page.
And then there was the other thing. Severus was a man. Harry was a man . . . or
at least he would be soon . . . What did that make “them”—if Severus ever let
there be a “them.”
Was he gay?
The boy frowned down at the unresponsive parchment.
He had never thought about that. Ever. . . . How was he supposed to know? Yes,
he liked Snape sexually. He dreamt of Snape . . . a lot. But he had liked Cho
Fourth Year. Not that he was worried about her—whatever they might have had was
long-since gone. She still had trouble meeting his eyes the few times he saw
her. Besides, even before Snape, after those awkward meetings in Hogsmead and
that fight at the end of the term . . . It was simply too awkward; there was
too much history there. And now there was Snape. Even though Cho still made him
feel all muddled up sometimes when he saw her, what he felt for Snape was . . .
different. It was like comparing a candle to a blowtorch.
Just how did the wizarding world deal with homosexuality? He had never heard
anything about it . . . it was never mentioned in the dorms, or in classes.
Even the dirtier insults were more likely to be based on sex with a killmoulis
or something instead of gay people. Was it not talked about because it was
wrong? Was Harry wrong for feeling the way he did about Snape? Or was it not
talked about because it was okay? Did people even care?
He picked up his quill and began to run the end back and forth across his lips
in agitation.
The more Harry thought about this, the more confused he got. He didn’t feel gay
. . . although he didn’t exactly know if one was supposed to feel gay. Did
straight feel different? And, again, what about Cho? Did that make him bi-
sexual or something? How was he supposed to know what being gay was like
anyway? Did just liking Snape make him gay? He wasn’t attracted to any of the
other boys he could think of. Seamus was kinda cute, but he was a total prat.
Neville was just . . . no. The twins were alright, he supposed. Draco was
gorgeous, of course, but you’d have to be blind, deaf, and a complete moron not
to see that. Shame he was such a little snot. But none of them made him feel
the way Snape did.
Cho came close. The memory of her smooth skin and long, silky hair still made
his stomach feel like it was a Snitch that didn’t want to be caught. But Snape
. . . Snape made him . . . want. Snape made him—
Harry blushed and dropped his head in misery as exactly how Snape made him feel
was made readily apparent by the tightening of his trousers. He shifted
uncomfortably and sat back up, staring at the list while absently chewing the
bedraggled end of his quill.
Harry’s experience with sex was limited to the time Dean Thomas had pinched his
bum last year and the wet, sloppy Christmas kiss with Cho in Room of
Requirement. Though he still blushed sometimes when Dean looked at him, and
he’d always cherish his first kiss, neither was anywhere close to what Snape
made him feel. When Snape kissed him . . .
Harry was on fire. The world was on fire. When Snape kissed him, Harry knew
that at that instant, he was all the man saw, knew, felt, and wanted. Snape
could make Harry burn just by looking at him . . . And Merlin help him in
Potion’s Class because that voice never failed to conjure fantasies of that
late night lab visit at the start of term. Only this time, Harry didn’t run.
Harry stayed like he should have that first night and Snape would pick him up
and sweep all that stuff off the lab table in one of those big, dramatic
gestures the man was so fond of and throw him down and tear at his clothes and—
Harry groaned. These thoughts were not helping . . . And while the fantasy was
nice and, along with silencing charms, had kept him company almost every night
since September, the reality was different. He wanted Snape to do all those
things to him again, to touch him like that again, but every time he thought of
it—really, truly thought of it—a cold lump seemed to settle in the pit of his
stomach.
He liked it when Snape touched him, but he just couldn’t get around the fact
that he didn’t like to be touched. People simply didn’t touch him. The Dursleys
had never touched him in any way that made him eager to repeat the experience
and, every time they did, they immediately wiped their hands, as though he was
some sort of filth to be cleaned off their nice, normal skin immediately. Mrs.
Weasely hugged him sometimes, but he never quite knew what to do when it
happened. Dumbledore would put an arm around his shoulder occasionally, but
Harry had never felt comfortable with the camaraderie that entailed. Ron and
‘Mione were the closest thing he had to siblings, but unless he was caught up
in the moment, he still found himself shrugging off their embraces and hand
pats. He didn’t know why, he just didn’t particularly like people touching him.
Snape was a man. And, if what happened in the lab was any indication, he
expected certain things. He certainly would not be willing to twiddle his
thumbs because Harry had hang ups.
The quill fell to the paper with a dull noise. “I am such a head case.”
A sudden bark of laughter startled the boy and he jumped, his elbow hit the
desk top hard and ink spilled all over his list. Harry jumped to his feet to
avoid the dark liquid as it spilled over the edge of the desk and onto the
floor. “Bugger!”
“Such a mouth, Mr. Potter,” cackled an all too familiar voice. “Having
problems, are we?”
The boy glared at the battered Sorting Hat and dug a thoroughly rumpled and
poorly used handkerchief out from his robes. “Don’t you ever have anything
useful to say?”
If a hat could look offended, the Sorting Hat managed to look positively
wounded. “Now, now,” clucked the headgear. It turned the creases on its front
that mimicked eyes down to the boy and ‘watched’ him critically. “No need to be
so testy. And I always say useful things . . . for those who care to listen.”
Harry harrumphed and returned to cleaning up the ink as best he could.
Thankfully none of Dumbledore’s papers or trinkets had been harmed.
“You know,” the Hat began again after a moment, “you are supposed to be a
wizard, dear child. They have spells for such things.”
Harry shot the creature another glare and muttered something that sounded
suspiciously like “belt up” as he removed his wand. A cleaning spell later, the
mess was gone.
The Sorting Hat crowed in triumph. “You see, Mr. Potter! I can be useful. Now
do stop being so stubborn and come over here.”
“Why?” Harry shoved his now-empty inkwell and stained quill back in his bag.
“So you can spy on me for Dumbledore, too?”
“I should think not.” The Hat sounded miffed. “I have kept the secrets of
Hogwarts secret for over a thousand years, child. I doubt that you have
anything in your pretty little head that could make me change that.”
Harry rose from packing his bag and stalked over to the Hat’s stand, his fists
on his hips. “You told him you wanted me in Slytherin,” he accused.
The Hat’s reply was even more affronted than the previous one: “I did not.
Albus is smarter than that. Besides, it’s obvious for anyone who cares to
look.”
“Snape doesn’t know,” the boy muttered mutinously under his breath.
“Severus Snape,” the enchanted Hat declared matter-of –factly, “can be quite a
fool when he wants to be. One of the most frustrating First Years I’ve ever had
the displeasure of meeting. And quite rude, too! Absolutely insisted on
Ravenclaw—not that it did him a bit of good. Now stop pouting and let’s have a
look-see.”
Harry blinked, surprised by the information. “Ravenclaw? I thought you said
that you kept people’s secrets.”
“That’s hardly a secret,” the Hat replied dismissively. “Poor Flitwick actually
came up and tried to convince Albus to re-Sort him. I wouldn’t, of course. He
needed to be in Slytherin, so Slytherin was where he stayed. Ravenclaw would
not have been good for him.”
The boy stared in disbelief and his mind flickered back to the ugly brand he’d
seen on the man’s arm at the end of fourth year. “And Slytherin was good for
him?”
The Hat managed to look sickeningly smug.
“Why did he need to be in Slytherin?”
“Now that, child, is a secret. Now put me on.”
Before Harry quite knew what he was doing, he reached up, pulled down the Hat
and dropped it over his eyes. Immediately he felt the Hat’s magic poking about
in head, rooting through his mind.
Very interesting, the Hat declared at last.
What is?
This situation you’ve gotten yourself entangled in this time. I do fear that
this will all blow up in your face.
You mean the . . . thing . . . with Sever—Snape.
You can call him Severus, you know, the Hat chuckled. After that little tryst
in the lab, I’d think you’d at least call the man by his name.
Harry turned scarlet under the brim of the Hat.
But no, it continued. You’ve already made up your mind about that. You’re just
too scared to realize it. I meant everything else. Gryffindor has not been good
for you. You should have been in Slytherin.
No! the boy snapped in response.
Well, there’s no helping it now, in any case, the Hat said, completely ignoring
his outburst. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. But things are going to
happen, Mr. Potter, whether you want them to or not. And you are not ready for
them yet.
Harry tensed and, unbidden, the image of Sirius falling slowly backwards locked
into his mind. It was like a slap in the face. Only, when he looked at it, it
wasn’t Sirius; it was Snape. I’ve been studying! he practically wailed before
he could stop himself.
The Hat clamped down tighter on his head as though to chastise him. It’s not an
issue of studying. A wizard is the only one who can unlock his power, Potter.
And you have left yours to lie fallow.
My power . . .?
Yes. It is the man who makes the wizard, Potter, not the wizard who makes the
man. Why else do you think that Longbottom is in Gryffindor and not Hufflepuff?
You’re afraid. And your mind is too muggle. You don’t think or act like a
wizard. You think and act like a child. It’s time for you to grow up.
I am a child, Harry snapped peevishly.
Then God have mercy on us all. If you are a child, then stop expecting to be
treated as an adult. Or loved like one. And if you’re not a child, then grow
up. This is a war, Potter. Stop jumping at your own shadow—or Tom Riddle’s, as
it were. The man makes the wizard, the wizard does not make the man. You could
never be Lord Voldemort. Yes, you can be cruel and hateful. There is Darkness
in you. You know that now—we’ve both seen what you did to your uncle. But you
are Harry Potter, not Tom Riddle. That will never change. I stand by my
original judgment: you’d have done better in Slytherin. But we all make
mistakes, don’t we?
Harry removed the Hat hastily, his hand trembling. Immediately the horribly
invasive feel of the Founders’ magic stopped and he set the Hat back in its
place. “I . . . have to go.”
“Too much information?” the Hat asked. It looked almost sympathetic.
The Potter heir ignored the question and hastily gathered up his things.
“You’ll tell Dumbledore that I had to go? Pomfrey will want me back soon
anyway.”
The Hat snickered. “You may want to toss that paper of yours out first,
though.”
Harry stopped his hurried packing and looked at the ruined parchment for a
moment. The ink hadn’t come off and most of the writing was obscured by the
spill. Towards the middle of the paper, though, two words were plainly visible.
Him Me He picked it up gingerly so as not to stain his fingers and threw it
into the fireplace. The flames consumed it instantly.
The boy turned back to the Hat, looking suddenly determined. “Tell him that I
went back to the hospital wing.”
“Oh? Tired?”
Harry shouldered his bag. “Something like that.” He turned and walked to the
door.
The Hat’s voice made him pause at the entrance. “He really does care for you,
Potter.”
Harry’s finger’s tightened painfully around the knob. “He?”
“Yes. He. Either one is alright.”
For a moment Harry stared at the ancient grain of the door. Finally he stepped
back and opened the door. “Oh.” The door boomed shut behind him.
In a corner, a gold hand slid smoothly over the face of the clock. It moved
slowly forward, edging from “My Office” to “The Dungeons.” Scrawled up the
hand’s side was only one word: Ready.
The Sorting Hat hummed happily in the silent office.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

The bathroom floor was flooded again. Ron ducked carefully into the girl’s
lavatory and made a face as his shoes immediately got soaked. Hermione was
seated on the dais that held the sink, her long brown hair falling haphazardly
into her eyes as she checked the cauldron.
“Mind the hair,” Ron teased mildly as he walked over to lean against one of the
sinks. “Remember what happened in Second Year.”
‘Mione looked up and smiled, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “Oh, hush.
Besides, this is Dreamless Sleep, not Polyjuice. Human hair will only
neutralize the pixie wing dust.”
Ron settled against the sink and frowned down at his wet feet. “What does the
dust do?”
The girl rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the potion. “Honestly,
Ron! Don’t you ever study?”
“No.”
Hazel eyes flashed as she glared at him, but Ron only smiled cheekily. The
bushy-haired Gryffindor snorted and stirred the cauldron three times counter-
clockwise. “Have you talked to Harry today?”
“Not since Herbology. He looked a bit off still.” The Weasely turned away from
his girlfriend and began to absently finger the faucet next to him. He watched
his middle finger coast over the snake that opened the gate to the Chamber of
Secrets. “I dropped by the Infirmary before I came, but he wasn’t there. I’m
going to drop off his books tonight before dinner.”
“Good. Today’s his tea with Dumbledore, so he’s probably still in the
Headmaster’s office.” Hermione rose and smoothed her robes unnecessarily. “This
about ready to be put into vials. Can you put them on his bed tonight? He said
that he was almost out last night when I visited him.”
Ron nodded and continued his absent inspection of the faucet without really
seeing it. “Alright.” He hesitated for a moment and allowed himself to be
distracted by the sound of Hermione cleaning up the potion’s ingredients and
packing them away. He wondered idly when or if Harry was going to tell
Dumbledore he was on Dreamless Sleep. Probably some time after hell froze over
and Snape awarded Gryffindor House points. “Where’s Myrtle?”
‘Mione smiled over the cauldron. “Off chasing Peeves,” she confided with a
little laugh. “He was making fun of her glasses again.”
“Better than the U-bend, I guess.” The redhead watched Hermione’s careful,
precise movements for a moment with absent admiration. “I don’t like this . . .
I feel like we’re sneaking around on him.”
“Do you want to tell him about us? It might be better.”
Ron snorted and toed the water, watching ripples spread over the floor. “Or it
could make him pull away from us even more.” He frowned. “I don’t know. I just
don’t like it.”
Hermione began to spoon the Potion out into little test-tube like flasks and
passing them to Ron to cork. There were thirty-four in all. When they were
about halfway through, she spoke: “I don’t like it either. But I don’t want to
upset Harry anymore. And I certainly don’t want to make him feel like a third
wheel. He needs us right now. We’re like his family.” She spooned in the last
of the potion and handed him the vial. “I just don’t want him to be hurt.”
Ron nodded. “When he’s ready, then. But soon.”
His girlfriend nodded, but looked no happier than he did about the situation.
She collapsed the cauldron and began to pack up.
“I’ll label them tonight.” Ron paused and leaned back against the sink once
more, resting his weight heavily against the ancient porcelain. “. . . Is it
just me, ‘Mione, or is something wrong with Harry?”
His girlfriend looked up from her packing, wearing a slight frown. “I don’t
really know . . . After Sirius . . . And he still hasn’t told us what happened
this summer . . .” The girl trailed off, looking uneasy. “Why? Has he said
anything to you?”
Ron shrugged and straightened a bit. “You know he never says anything. He could
be standing right in front of you, holding his severed arm or something, and
he’d just say he needed to lie down.” She glared and the Weasley flushed
slightly and looked down at the still water pooled on the floor. “I just mean
that he’s been studying an awful lot. And he’s been real quiet. He doesn’t even
want to fight with Malfoy or Snape.” His lip curled involuntarily at the names.
“And plus he’s been studying constantly.”
Hermione sat back on her heels and stared at the water as well. She nibbled her
lower lip anxiously and Ron caught himself smiling at her reflection. She
looked gorgeous when she was trying to figure things out. She looked gorgeous a
lot.
The muggleborn smoothed back her hair with a rough, automatic gesture. Her eyes
were shadowed and troubled. “Maybe you’re right . . . Normally, I’m all for you
two studying, but this just isn’t like him. He’s looked so pale and distant . .
.”
Ron nodded and dropped down into a crouch in front of her. “Do you think it has
to do with V-v-vol—You-Know-Who?” He still could not bring himself to say that
name.
Hermione shrugged helplessly. “He said that the potion and his Occlumency have
helped a lot. If it was Voldemort,” Ron winced slightly, “he’d tell us, don’t
you think?”
Ron watched her in unhappy silence for a moment. “So if it’s not Big and Scary,
what?”
“Has he spoken to Cho lately?”
“Not since last term.” The was another moment of silence. Finally Ron shifted
guiltily. “He left the dorms around 11:30 our first night back. He didn’t come
back till breakfast.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“He looked like he’d been crying,” the redhead protested. He shrank back from
his girlfriend’s glare. “I thought that it was just fallout from Sirius, but—”
The girl frowned suddenly and her eyes grew distant. “He hasn’t said anything
about Sirius . . . He hasn’t even cried since last year . . .”
“Harry doesn’t cry,” Ron said dismissively. He shifted, uncomfortable with
setting his weight on his heels for so long. “I think it has something to do
with Snape.”
Hermione blinked. “What makes you say that?”
“Remember when Snape stayed at the house this summer? Over the full moon?”
The girl frowned again, perplexed.
“That’s around the same time Harry started acting off.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Ron nodded emphatically. Hermione’s eyes grew distant again a she turned the
problem over in her mind.
“Do you think the greasy bastard did something to him?”
For once, she didn’t admonish him for language or for disparaging a professor.
“No,” she said clearly after a moment. “I don’t think that Snape did anything
to him per se . . . Dumbledore would know by now and he’d never let Snape hurt
Harry. But you may be right. Even if he isn’t directly involved, he probably
knows something about what’s wrong. He is a spy after all—he had to have seen
or heard something.”
“The ferret’s been being kind of weird lately too. He keeps watching Harry—it’s
kind of creepy actually.”
Hermione hide a smile as she drew the strings on her bag closed. “Maybe he
fancies Harry.”
Ron pulled a face. “That’s not funny. Maybe he’d just pissed because of what
happened to his daddy. Dad says that the Malfoy name isn’t something held in
high regard at the Ministry anymore. Fudge has been trying to distance himself
and cover his fat arse since June.”
“Maybe . . . But Harry would definitely tell us about Malfoy.” Hermione frowned
thoughfully.
“Maybe.”
Ron stood and winced when his knees popped. He extended a hand to Hermione and
helped her up. Her eyes were distant once again and she didn’t seem to notice
as he gingerly pulled her closer.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her muggle shampoo. She smelled
like fruit and something sweet. “So what do we do?”
Hermione turned slightly and jumped to see Ron so close to her. When she looked
up for a moment, she felt as though she were going to fall into those
incredibly blue eyes. Ice blue. But they never seemed cold to her.
“’Mione?”
She smiled up at him and leaned into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.
“We watch,” she murmured into his robes. “And we wait. Harry will tell us when
he’s ready.”
Ron squeezed her tight. “And until then, we watch the three of them like
hawks.”
“Exactly.”


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

The platinum-blond Slytherin sat in the far corner of the library,
conspicuously alone. He spent most of his time alone now. People were beginning
to notice. Whispers traveled through Hogwarts faster than angry kneazles under
speed spells and the rumor mill was currently a-buzz with mutterings that all
was not well in the House of the Snake. But those were only rumors.
Just rumors.
Draco turned the page, gasping as a corner of the old parchment sliced into his
finger. He popped the wounded digit into his mouth before any blood could fall
on the page. Pince was absolutely mental about her books. Whispering in another
corner caught the boy’s attention and he raised hard eyes to glare at a small
cluster of Ravenclaw First Years who were pointing at him. The three boys
immediately turned crimson and fled, lest the Malfoy heir take his bad temper
out on them.
The pain of the paper cut aside, they had good reason to be afraid. Draco
sneered at the boys’ flight and turned back to his book, glaring sightlessly at
the pages. It was too cold in here. He shivered. Not only was he having
problems with the House because of his less than Pro-Death Eater behavior, he’d
been unable to secure an interview with Professor Snape since that night in the
Potions Master’s chambers. The blond scowled at the memory. He’d really gone
out on a limb in divulging what he knew to the man, and he had yet to see a
return on the investment. After what he saw the day before yesterday in the
infirmary, though, Draco was beginning to think that the spy was avoiding him.
A fundamentally stupid action now, as he simply had to know that Draco knew of
his dubious loyalties. And yet he risked a possible reprisal? It made no sense.
Perhaps it had something to do with Potter. That cozy little scene in the
infirmary was not something that Draco ever expected to see. The way Snape had
looked at the Gryffindor . . . had been something less than appropriate.
Teachers were not supposed to look at their students like that. And why did
Potter call Snape ‘Anhur’? Draco had the distinct feeling that he was standing
on the precipice of a mystery that he should stay out of, but if it got his
family away from the Dark Lord and could afford his mother and father a bit of
protection, he was more than willing to risk it.
If the greasy old bastard wouldn’t help him out amicably, then he’d just have
to resort to blackmail. He had given Snape ample opportunity to come forward
and try and help him, but he had the overwhelming impression that he was
running out of time. He wanted an allegiance with the co-called “Light” if
that’s what it took to save his family, but he wanted it on his terms. His
father had told him to keep out of it. Draco refused. It was time he stepped
forward and took his place as the Malfoy patriarch. His father was obviously in
no condition to make the family decisions anymore. He had risked everything to
come this far; he would not be stalled by some over-presumptuous Snape who
thought he was equipped to dilly-dally in Malfoy affairs.
Imagine what the famous Potter would do if he knew that the Head of Slytherin
was looking at him with such amorous eyes. It had been stupid of Snape to do
such a thing in the open, anyway. Very un-Slytherin. The Prophet would pay big
for something like that . . .
But that could very well ruin Draco’s prospects with Potter. The Malfoy heir
was not stupid; he knew that if he couldn’t get Potter’s help in extricating
his family name from the Dark Lord’s webs, then he may as well give up.
Dumbledore could not be trusted—the man would try to use him as a spy and Draco
refused to allow himself to be entangled in the same manner as his Professor.
This was his choice. And Potter needed all the allies he could get. Rumor had
it that all was not well between the Golden Boy and Dumbledore. Perhaps Potter
had realized that the senile fool could not be trusted. Perhaps he was ready
for an ally who did not pay homage to Hogwarts hierarchy. Voldemort and
Dumbledore were both Lords in their own respects, Dumbledore was just more
manipulative than Voldemort. And, as far as Draco was concerned, they were both
totally nutters. He could suffer the existence of a few mudbloods if necessary,
but a Malfoy bowed to no one. Not anymore.
Potter demanded no such homage. It was obvious to anyone with eyes in their
head that the boy was not the attention-loving celebrity that Draco had
originally thought he was. In fact, Draco couldn’t imagine anyone less suited
to be a hero. But the boy was honest and brave and ridiculously Gryffindor,
despite his apparent disregard for his status. Even though he was a half-blood,
Draco couldn’t help but admire all the prat had accomplished in the past five
years. The boy was formidable, and he’d grow to into a forced to be reckoned
with. Draco was sick of setting himself against the tide. It was Potter who
would fight the war. It was Potter who would win it. And, regardless of what he
felt for the little bastard, Draco wanted to be by Potter’s side when that
happened. And if Potter lost, he wanted to buried in that field.
Draco would restore the Malfoy name. He would redeem his family. And he would
avenge his father. There could be no victory on Voldemort’s side—it may have
taken a heavy blow to get that through his skull, but he understood that now.
The Malfoys were running out of time.
For almost a full week after Lucius was brought home, the Malfoy patriarch was
locked in a cell in the basement with only Narcissa and a House Elf for
company. Occasionally, though, the silencing charm would wear off and Draco
could hear the screams. Horrible, terrible, screams. Pleas. “Forgive me, my
Lord.” “Spare my family, my Lord.” “I will not fail again, my Lord.” And on.
And on. And on. Until Draco was sick with the noise and his mother’s eyes
burned from crying.
That had hurt more than his father’s arrest: Lucius Malfoy—an idol of politics,
a god amongst men. And now a screaming madman locked in the basement who clawed
himself like a wild beast to escape the pain of imaginary curses.
No. His family would not live through that again. Not ever. And Potter was his
way out. But how to get the boy alone? How to make him listen?
Potter had still been asleep when Pomfrey had pushed Draco out of the
infirmary, but the Slytherin knew that the Boy-Who-Lived had been released
right after dinner. He had seen McGonagall hustling him up to the Headmaster’s
office while coming to the library. Potter had looked . . . exhausted. He’d
seen that same vague look in his father’s eyes when the Malfoy patriarch had
emerged from the basement one day in early June—it was the empty eyed stare of
someone who had sunk the absolute depths of their life and been forcibly drug
to the surface again. But they didn’t surface—they just stayed there, just
below water level, struggling to breath, never able to fully come back up.
Draco shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about his
father anymore.
The doctors said that the man would never really recover—whatever he’d been
forced to endure for that month of imprisonment had wounded him indelibly.
Scarred him somewhere deep, deep in his mind. The innocent were broken in
Azkaban. The guilty were shattered.
“You will not be returning to Hogwarts this year.”
“It’s my choice what I do, Father. I am not a child—”
“You are! You are a spoiled, selfish,stupidchild, and you will notreturn to
that . . . that . . . school!! It is too dangerous now! I will not allow you to
involve yourself in this ridiculous war. This is no matter for a child to
resolve. If you cannot make proper decisions for yourself then I will make them
for you.”
“I’m NOT YOU! I won’t make you mistakes! I won’t ruin a good name! I won’t
ignore my son or leave my wife to—”
CRACK!
. . .
“. . . Draco . . .?”
“ . . . You are a curse on our name, Father. You would have done us a better
service to have died in that place.”
Draco’s eyes flew open and he surged to his feet, the book tumbling unnoticed
to the floor. He would not think of his father anymore. Not today. He walked
out of the library with undue haste. The book remained on the floor, forgotten.
The hallways seemed to pass in a blur and the blond was only aware of his
progress by the jolt of every step. No one seemed to notice him as he went down
to the dungeons. He wasn’t aware of where his feet were taking him until he
found himself standing outside the door; he’d only wanted to escape the
suffocating closed-ness of the library. So how, then, did he manage to end up
outside Snape’s private potions lab?
 
For a moment he stared blankly at the door, as though surprised by it. He could
still feel the tingle where his father had struck him.
The blond cast about the hallway as though debating going back. This was
stupid, though, wasn’t it? It was long past time to confront the man. Two weeks
was enough—more than enough. But Snape might not even be in there. True this
was his usual lab hour, yet . . .
Draco stiffened with a growl. He was being ridiculous. If Snape wasn’t in, then
he wasn’t in. But his family was running out of time while he stood out in the
hall like some mudblood First Year . . . And Snape would at least let him talk.
Potter might very well hex first and ask questions later.
And that nosey old bastard Dumbledore would probably find a way to give the
prat points for it, too.
Draco stepped forward and raised his hand to knock on the door.
He would not be put off any longer.
“Stop this now!”
Draco jerked to a halt, his hand still raised. Snape was arguing with someone?
The door was very thick and it muffled the sound almost entirely, but he was
sure he heard something. Perhaps this would give him the leverage he needed
without alienating the Potter brat.
The blond dropped his hand and leaned forward a bit to try to catch some of the
conversation, but there was only silence. Then there came on odd scuffling
noise that Draco couldn’t identify.
“Have you lost all reason?!” Snape demanded suddenly. Draco took a step away
from the door. The man sounded unhinged.
And Draco knew what someone unhinged sounded like.
But, again, there was nothing but silence. Finally, sick of standing about and
unwilling to be brushed aside once more, Draco gripped the doorknob and pushed
the door open and . . .
Stopped.
“We ca—”
Draco stared in stunned amazement at the sight before him. Snape was on a chair
in front of his worktable, frozen. He had stopped talking, choking on his words
with a strange gasping noise. The man’s normally sickly color paled even
further till he was gray as cheap paper, and his eyes widened as they met
Draco’s, a hunted expression appearing on his face.
The blond turned slightly, alarmed, to the decidedly boyish figure that was
perched on the Snape’s knee. Small hands gripped the man’s robes, pulling him
closer than was decent, and Snape’s hands were pressed against the boy’s sides.
The boy turned with a fierce glare and Draco felt the room tilt around him.
Because there, sitting on Snape’s lap, black hair eternally disheveled and his
cheeks slightly flushed, was Harry James Potter . . .
Looking madder than hell.
Draco took a step back, still gaping.
”Obliviate!”
He never even saw Snape raise his wand.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** Four I: The Dragon's Clutch *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                              ~ Chapter Four I ~
                              The Dragon’s Clutch
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                            Remember the warnings;
                           Forget what you're told.
                            The heart of the temple
                              is hollow and cold.
              The face of the prophet is tired and creased . . .
                   He raises his cup and falls to his knees.
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Draco Malfoy sat alone in the center of the Slytherin common room, trying in
vain to study his Potions text. Snape would have his head if he didn’t get his
grades back up. Something had been bothering the man of late—it was as though
he could no longer meet Draco’s eyes, but he suddenly seemed to be twice as
strict about the Malfoy heir’s class work. And there was something else, too .
. . Something that the platinum blond couldn’t quite put his finger on . . .
Something hovering just on the tip of his awareness . . .
Something was very wrong with the Potions Master, and for the life of him,
Draco could not figure out what it was. But that was small potatoes, really.
What was really important was Potter. He had to talk to the other boy. And
soon.
He could feel the eyes of his housemates on him, watching, judging, biding
their time . . . Hyenas circling a carcass. Silver eyes snapped up and met the
hungry jade gaze of Micah Jasperstone, a cocky, deceptively comely Seventh
Year. If Draco had once ruled sixth years, then Micah lorded over the Seventh
Years. The sandy-haired brunet bared his teeth in a smile at the Malfoy heir
and turned sharply on his heel, stalking out of the room.
Hyenas come to feast on the dead.
Draco sneered. Let them come then—he was no easy meat. Not yet.
The door swung open and Blaise Zabini came trotting in. Zabini was quite
possibly the only person in the world who could make the simple act of walking
look indolent—not that anyone outside the House would notice; the dark-eyed
Slytherin’s shell was only shed in the dungeons. Blaise crossed the common room
and dropped carelessly into the seat next to Draco, blatantly ignoring the dark
looks of the others. Pretty enough to be a girl, and bold enough to be a rather
audacious boy, the only way most First Years knew their upperclassman’s sex was
to watch the stairwells at curfew.
Despite having slept in the bed to Draco’s right for five years straight, the
blond had never quite managed to figure out how Blaise snuck from the girl’s
dorm to the boys, nor how the other boy had managed to even convince the girls
to allow him to use their staircase every single night. Most of the new student
didn’t figure out the trick until Christmas hols and everyone else was too
amused by their faux pas to correct them. However he did it, Blaise seemed to
enjoy causing confusion far more than was probably healthy.
Even the teachers had problems distinguish Blaise from the girls. For the first
two weeks of their First Year, the Zabini heir had worn a skirt to every class
but Potions simply because he could. Once Snape had gotten wind of it, though,
he had quickly put a stop to the behavior. . . . Though, to his credit, the
Potions Master made no secret of his amusement over incident.
Critical brown eyes took in Draco’s tense posture with obvious curiosity.
Finally, the brunet settled back and stretched his long legs out in front of
him. Blaise seemed to have skipped the prerequisite awkward phase that 99% of
boys go through and had moved immediately to the “young adult stage,” much to
his dorm mates’ envy. He smirked at the other boy and ran a hand back through
his long hair. “My, my, my . . . Aren’t we looking a bit piqued today . . .
Lost your boys, have you?”
Draco looked up from his book and glared at his sometimes-ally, never-friend
with intense eyes. The loss of Crabbe and Goyle’s friendship had been a painful
blow, and an enforcement of his worst fears about them: they had just been
using him. Like everyone else. For a moment the two teens stared at one another
in silence. Then Draco closed his book and leaned back into the couch as well.
People began to surreptitiously filter out of the common room—an unusual
occurrence for four o’clock in the afternoon. Draco couldn’t help but wonder
who had arranged this little tête-à-tête.
He cocked his head to the side slightly and watched Zabini for a moment.
“Potter’s been released from the hospital wing.”
Blaise arched an eyebrow. “When? Yesterday? That certainly explains why he
wasn’t been at breakfast for the past few days. Pomfrey should just give him
his own bed already.”
“It would certainly save her time,” the blond agreed, turning to stare at the
empty fireplace. “Seems he had a bad time of it in Divination a few days ago.”
Blaise sniffed dismissively. “Useless class, that.”
“Mmmm . . .”
For several moments the boys sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts as
the last students filed in and out on their way to or from class. Finally Draco
frowned at his companion and shifted uncomfortably. The common room was empty
now and they were alone.
“What do you want, Blaise?”
A furtive glance at Draco’s face revealed no malice, only simple, tired
curiosity. Blaise turned slightly, giving his housemate his full attention. He
frowned slightly at the too-old expression in Draco’s eyes and felt a pang of
pity for the Malfoy heir. They were all getting too old for their ages, it
seemed. It must be the war.
Draco frowned slightly, an impatient expression, and the brunet made a fretful
face. “You shouldn’t change horses in the middle of the stream, Malfoy. It’s
bad policy. Especially when the stream is a river and the horses are a lot
bigger than you are and are gunning for each other.”
The blond’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,
Blaise.”
Blaise scowled and barely resisted reaching out to shake the other boy. “Look,
Malfoy, you’re an arrogant, egotistical prick, but I like you. Now, the others
have noticed something’s up. You’re drifting off during Potions. You’re eyeing
Potter and the Trio like you’ve never seen them before. Merlin, you’re looking
at Potter like he’s the Holy Grail or something. Crabbe and Goyle are wandering
around like lost sheep between classes because they can’t remember which
lessons to go to and they look like they want to cry every time someone
mentions your name. So either you’re thinking of a realignment, or you’re just
suicidal.” He paused. “Or both.” Draco looked away, but Blaise continued, “You
know I don’t run with that crowd, so if this is what the neutrals are saying,
imagine what the others are talking about when you’re not around. This is going
to get back to Him at some point in time, and then it’ll be buggering time.”
Draco sneered at him with open contempt. “And you care, why?”
“I don’t,” snapped the other boy. “I got drafted to talk with you, so here I
am. Nobody likes instability within the House, Malfoy and you’re fixing to fuck
us all up. We’ve maintained a balance here for over seven hundred years. We’ve
survived Grindelwald and we’ll survive the Dark Lord. But if you bring politics
into the common room, then we will lose what tenuous solidarity we have and the
other Houses will eat us alive.”
“My heart weeps for your plight, Zabini.”
For a moment it looked as though Blaise would strike him, then the brunet
turned away to glare at the empty fireplace. He snapped his wrist with a
flourish of slight of hand and his wand appeared. “Incendio.”
The cold logs roared to life.
“You’re not making yourself any friends, Dragon.”
“Nor are you, Zabini. People who refuse to have enemies can never have
friends.”
Blaise pushed himself off the couch, wand vanishing once more into his sleeve,
and stalked over to the fireplace. “And what of Professor Snape?”
“What of him?” Draco’s eyes bored into Blaise’s back as the other boy leaned
heavily against the mantle and stared at the flames. “Snape is nothing.”
“If you do this thing, then Professor Snape is your lifeline. He rules
Slytherin House; you’re saved or damned by his word alone.”
“He’s only a—”
“He is the Dark Lord’s pet Potions Master.”
Draco gave a derisive snort. “No, Zabini. Snape’s even worse than you. You
neutrals,” he spat the word out with disgust. “You all say that you’re on no
one’s side and then try to play politics without being involved. People who
refuse to acknowledge that there’s even an argument forfeit any right to join
the discussion. But our Snape—oh, he’s a piece of work. He says he’s on
everyone’s side, but then only ends up betraying himself.”
Blaise turned, his eyes burning more intensely than the fire. “Knickers in a
twist because he won’t take your side, Dragon?” He stalked back towards the
couch, stopping a few feet from Draco to stare down at him with his arms
crossed and his lips set in a tight, humorless line. “Turn your back on
Slytherin, and we will turn our back on you. Within these walls, no one should
ever be assured of who’s on whose side. Don’t break that code. The only thing
that we know within Hogwarts is that we are Slytherin. It doesn’t matter what
your name is or how much money you make or who your Daddy is. We are Slytherin.
That’s all the other Houses will understand. That is our only identity. There
is no room for a split, or a schism. We have no time for petty squabbling. Stop
parading yourself about like a bloody peacock and think about your House for a
moment. You’re going to ruin everything!”
“Why are you so afraid of shattering a tired stereotype?!”
“Why are you suddenly so determined to fly in the face of every secret House
Code that Slytherin has known—that your family has known—for centuries?!”
The shorter boy sprang to his feet, angered. “I am NOT my bloody name! I am not
my father! I am not some cookie cut of my blood. I am myself and I will make my
own decisions!”
Blaise stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence. “What the hell
happened to you this summer, Draco?”
Draco clenched his fists and looked away. “Go to hell, Blaise.”
Blaise stalked across the room determinedly in his swaying, indolent waltz. He
paused next to Draco and dropped his head to whisper in the shorter teen’s ear.
“You first, love.” Then he left, leaving a slight chill and the faint scent of
opium behind him.
Draco glared at the fireplace, raging silently. His hands trembled. His Potions
text was long since forgotten.
“I am no easy meat.”
The flames danced in response, reflected in his flat silver eyes.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

“And I get no choice in this?”
“You’ve made your choice. Now it’s my turn and I know what I want. Why are you
fighting this so much?”
“Stop this now!”
“No. Not this time. You don’t get to tell me what to do this time. I’m not
running away. Not anymore.”
“Don’t you understand anything? This has nothing to do with you or with me.
This is WRONG, Potter. Wrong in every sense of the word.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“If doesn’t matter what you believe.”
Green eyes snapped open and Harry lurched awake from his light doze. He looked
around the dorm for a moment, then lay on back down on his back and stared
blankly up at the blurry blood red canopy of his bed. Stupid, stupid, stupid .
. .
His eyes drifted closed once more as he rolled the situation over in his mind
again and again, finding every little error, every miscalculation. Every stupid
thing that had made everything go so terribly wrong. Just what the hell had he
been thinking? Bursting in like that? It wasn’t like Snape was just going to
throw him across the table and ravage him . . . Well, he might have if the damn
ferret hadn’t come waltzing in.
Why, oh why, hadn’t he thought to lock the door?
His cheek still stung where Snape had slapped him—a phantom sensation. It
hadn’t been hard, but the gesture itself had hurt far more than the blow. The
look—the anger—in Snape’s eyes had hurt more than he had believed possible.
Temper, temper, Harry. The boy took a deep breath. He would not lose his
temper. Not over the ferret. Not even over Snape.
“This is not some game! This is my job! My life!! Are you trying to kill me as
well?”
As well . . .
But what had he been thinking? And why did this hurt so much? It wasn’t like
there was anything there but a kiss or two. Nothing more.
“Get out, Potter! Get out or I will throw you out and I will throw you so hard
you’ll bounce twice!!”
“I’ll not be chased away just because you’ve gotten in over your head!”
“I cannot do this!!”
“You will!”
“Stupid child! Idiot boy, do you have any idea what you are getting into? Any
idea at all? I am 37 years old. I am a Death Eater. I am your bloody Professor!
And I will not be browbeaten by some silly, hormonal child!”
“Then throw me out. Throw me out. Or better yet, look me in the eye and tell me
that this was all some kind of dream, or daymare, or fantasy, and I’ll leave
and never come back. Tell me you don’t want me here.”
“. . . I don’t want you here, Mr. Potter.”
“My name is Harry. And you didn’t look me in the eye.”
Snape was right: this wasn’t a game. This was something important.
But this was also Snape he was dealing with. Death Eater. Tormenter of
Gryffindors Everywhere. Hater of All Things Good and True. And especially of
Harry Potter. It must have been a mistake—a dream. It must have been . . .
Everything.
“Obliviate!”
Greasy hair. Crooked, yellowed teeth. Big, hooked nose. Nasty temper. Stained
hands. A traitor. A spy. An unapologetic ass. This was Snape.
And it hurt.
“I told you that I wasn’t leaving until you listened to me. And I’m not going
to let you just throw me out. So listen: I . . . I want things. And I don’t
always understand it, but I want them. And I do stupid thing and don’t think
things through. And I’ve hurt you and I’m not really sure what I’m getting into
. . . But I’ve thought about this—really thought about it—and I want this. I
want you. And every single instinct I have inside me tells me that this is
right and that this is the way things are supposed to be. I know I leap before
I look. And I’m too curious. And I can’t let go of something once I have it.
But this isn’t like that. This is something . . . different. And I want to see
what it is. So stop arguing with me and stop condemning yourself over things
that I’ve already decided on.”
This was Snape. Strong arms. Deep, dark voice. Unflappable courage. Undeniable
honor. Unquestionable brilliance. Unforgiving arrogance. Severus Snivellus
Snape. Whose kisses tasted sweet and tangy and whose greasy hair smelled of
ginger and peppermint.
Snape, who had held him this summer. And who did not ask what happened at the
Dursleys’. And who did not cry out when he pierced himself on ivory teacup
shards, but sobbed and shrieked when Voldemort shattered his hand with a wisp
of cotton. Snape, who would drape his cloak over his shoulders and who did not
believe that Harry would have been like his mother.
Snape, who had lied to Harry and said that he was not going to die.
Harry rubbed his cheek absently. “It doesn’t matter what you believe.”
“Hey, mate! You awake?”
Harry’s eyes snapped open again at the sound of Ron’s voice just as his best
friend’s blurry face appeared in front of him. Concerned blue eyes stared down
at the brunet and Harry rolled over to get away from the uncomfortable
familiarity of their proximity. Ron flopped down on the bed and Harry sat up.
There was a series of crunching pops as the Potter heir cracked his neck loudly
and reached out to fumble for his glasses from his nightstand.
The world slid into sharp focus as he settled them on the bridge of his nose
and Harry blinked rapidly for an instant, suddenly aware of the pounding
headache beating in his temples. Perhaps he was better off without the glasses.
He was beginning to prefer things blurry.
The bed dipped up and down a bit as Ron tapped his feet on the floor. “You
okay?” The sixth Weasley turned around to frown at his friend. “We’re worried
about you. ‘Mione and me . . .”
Harry avoided his eyes, instead focusing on the ratty laces of his weather-
beaten trainers. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, flexing his toes back to examine
the tips of the shoes.
“No,” came the equally quiet response. “No, you’re not, mate.”
Harry looked away from his shoes, somewhat put off by Ron’s unusually pensive
response, and blinked at the oddly serious expression on the redhead’s face.
“Ron?”
They stared at one another for a moment and Harry was suddenly painfully aware
of how very far apart they seemed to have grown. He was still closer to Ron and
Hermione than he was—or ever had been—to anyone else in his life. But there was
also this distance between them that he didn’t know how to close. For just an
instant he wanted to blurt it all out. All of it.
I think I’m gay. Snape and I kissed and I want to do it again. I’m afraid that
Voldemort is going to kill me. I’m afraid he’s going to get in my head and make
me hurt you all. I’m terrified of losing control again. I hate that you and
Hermione are keeping secrets from me. I hate that I can’t trust Dumbledore. I
hate that Snape keeps tossing me aside. I hate that Remus can’t look me in the
eye. I hate that I’m the biggest threat to the Order outside of Voldemort. I
hate that I’m at the center of everything and no one can trust me. I hate that
through all this, all I can think of is that greasy bastard. I hate that I’m
alone. And I hate that I’m so scared.
“Why won’t you let us help you?” Ron asked quietly.
Harry looked back down at his trainers. “Ron . . .” But the words wouldn’t
come.
A bird chirped outside and the silence lengthened uncomfortably.
Finally Ron stood with a frustrated sigh. “I’ll meet you on the pitch in twenty
for practice, okay?”
He was almost out the door when Harry spoke again.
“It’s okay, you know. You and Hermione.”
Ron froze in the doorway and turned slowly to look at his friend. “What do you
mean?”
Green eyes stared back at him. There was no longer the perpetual anger or
repressed rage that was there, merely an old, old tiredness that seemed to
permeate his thin frame. Ron stared at him for a moment, surprised to see
traces of Remus in his friend. It was in the eyes.
Harry smiled, a smile, wistful expression. “You and Hermione. I know you’re
together.” A dark eyebrow suddenly lifted and the smile became a bit more
playful. “And it’s about damn time. And it’s okay. I don’t feel . . . left
out.”
Ron narrowed his eyes for a moment and then suddenly smiled, a familiar bright
red flush rising to stain his cheeks. “Were we that obvious?”
The brunet snickered lightly as the tension dissipated. This was far more
comfortable ground for the two of them. “You know Lavender has a big mouth.”
Ron snorted in response.
“And anyway,” Harry continued, “it doesn’t help that you get this big dopey
grin on your face every time she walks into the room.”
“Oi!” Ron grabbed a pillow off of Neville’s and threw it at his snickering
friend. “I do not!”
Harry burst out laughing and rolled back onto his bed to avoid the pillow. It
bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed next to his head while Ron turned an
even deeper shade of red.
“Quit laughing at me!”
The brunet gasped for air, still shaking with mirth as a rain of pillows flew
his way. “Knock it off!” He fumbled around in his sheets until he found his
wand and dodged a pillow to throw a Tickling Charm at his indignant housemate.
Ron immediately dropped to the ground, laughing hysterically and sputtering
protests. “No . . . fair . . .!”
Harry smirked as he struggled past the pillows to get out of bed. “All’s fair
in love and war.” Seeing his friend so happy—even if it was Charm induced
happiness—somehow lifted his spirits immeasurably. “Finite Incantatem.”
Still chuckling, Ron pushed himself to his feet and tired in vain to catch his
breath. “You don’t play fair.” His smile, however, was proof that he wasn’t
angry. And the smile that still lit Harry’s face was reward enough for a few
moments of tickling. It had been far too long since Harry had smiled like that.
Snickering, the Potter boy tossed the pillows back onto random beds.
“Leave it,” Ron advised, hovering by the door. “We’ll be late for practice. And
you know we have that match against Slytherin next weekend. Even if Malfoy’s
been quiet at meals, I still wouldn’t trust him in the air.”
Harry shrugged and tossed two pillows onto Neville’s bed. “It’s no big deal.
Dobby has enough to do as it is. And I don’t trust Malfoy any farther than I
can throw him.”
“Good.”
The brunet turned, surprised to hear his friend sound so pleased.
Ron flushed again and suddenly took a great interest in the carpet. “’Mione
thinks he fancies you.”
Harry immediately looked appalled. “Ew! No . . .”
Ron looked up and grinned. “Good. You’re my friend and all, mate, but Malfoy’s
a right prat.”
Harry smiled and turned to pull up his covers. “Get everyone to start warming
up, okay? I’ll be down in a few.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Ron turned and then paused again. He didn’t turn around. “You know, Harry . . .
If you do really need anything, you can tell us. You know that right?”
Harry didn’t turn either. “I know.” He carefully straightened the sheet. “I’ll
be down okay?”
Ron left without another word and Harry pulled up his comforter. He knew he
could go to Ron and Hermione if he needed them, but he also knew that they’d
risk just about anything for him. He’d never forget what Hermione had looked
like during the fight in the Department of Mysteries. The sight of his friends’
faces in battle was not something he enjoyed. Ron and Hermione would probably
follow him into hell—and Harry couldn’t allow that.
 
His father.
His mother.
Bertha Jenkins.
Cedric.
Sirius.
The body count was too high as it was. He would not add any more names to that
list if he could help it. Besides, this was his fight, not theirs. The prophecy
even said so. Unless Neville Longbottom stepped up to the plate, Harry was all
they had. And Neville couldn’t even sit through a Potion’s class without having
a near nervous breakdown, let alone go toe to toe with the Dark Lord. Harry
sighed and straightened his covers.
The Hat was right. It was time he took control of his own life. He couldn’t
keep depending on people to save him from himself. And if he ever wanted Snape
to get his head out of his arse, he’d have to stop acting like the “Perfect
Potter” brat the man had so often accused him of being.
It was time to take control.
Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have even the vaguest idea of where to begin.
The boy stood and stared at his perfectly made bed. If he had learned anything
at the Dursleys’, it was how to clean. The clock chimed, reminding Harry of the
hour, and he grabbed his bag and headed down towards the locker room. It was a
ten-minute walk from Gryffindor Tower and he so lost in his thoughts that he
barely even saw where he was going.
Which was probably why he didn’t even see Draco Malfoy until he walked into
him.
“Hey!”
Harry yelped and stumbled backwards, a hand going up to steady his glasses even
as he felt himself losing his balance. A strong hand snapped out, gripping his
robes and jerking him back upright before he could fall. For a moment Harry
locked eyes with Malfoy and froze. The boy really was beautiful.
But it wasn’t like with Snape.
Malfoy’s grip tightened and he yanked Harry just a bit closer. “I need to talk
to you.”
The brunet snarled and jerked himself out of the taller boy’s grasp. “Sod off,
ferret!” he hissed. It wasn’t parseltongue, but it sounded close enough to be
unnerving.
Temper, temper!
Malfoy cast an almost frantic glance around the empty hallway and reached out
to him again, as though trying to draw him back. Harry pulled away and was
suddenly aware of the feel of his wand in his hand. When had he drawn his wand?
“Potter!” Again, Malfoy shot another of those strange, panicked glances around
the hall. “Potter, listen. I can help you. I—”
“I don’t want your help, ferret!” Why was he shaking? He forced himself to
lower his wand. The amount of effort it took frightened him. “I don’t need it
and I don’t want it.” If it wasn’t for Malfoy, Severus might not be so mad at
him now. Severus might even be willing to look him in the eye. “You stay away
from me, Malfoy.”
The blond took another step forward and Harry raised his wand again, glowering.
“Potter—”
“Is there a problem here?”
Both boys jumped and turned slightly, startled to find Professor Sprout puffing
her way up the hall towards them. The Head of Hufflepuff frowned at the two
Sixth Years, her brown eyes hard over the rims of her tiny round spectacles.
She stopped a few feet away from them and put her fists on her considerable
hips, still frowning. Malfoy took a step away from Harry.
“Well,” she demanded curtly, looking from one boy to the other. “Is there a
problem?”
Malfoy’s eyes never left Harry’s face. “No, ma’am. No problem.”
Sprout turned her gaze to Harry and received a slow shake of his head in reply.
“No problem,” he muttered, sliding his wand back into his palm so that it was
hidden in his sleeve. “No problem at all.”
The rotund professor huffed, the action making her battered witch’s hat shift
on her head. She eyed them both a moment longer, obviously not believing them,
and then shook her head. “Well move along then. I’m sure you both have places
to be.”
Harry turned and hurried on his way, trying to ignore the feel of Malfoy’s eyes
on his back. The day he needed help from a Malfoy was the day he made Dobby his
personal bodyguard.
He didn’t need Malfoy.
He didn’t need anyone.
He stopped abruptly and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a handle on his
temper. He shoved his wand into a robe pocket and tried to still the shaking in
his hands. He had almost lost it back there. He could still feel it in the pit
of his belly . . . That solid ball of anger that he had worked so desperately
to push down. It had erupted once. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not here.
Not at Hogwarts. Not when it could be one of his friends who got hurt next
time. Not when it could be Ron. Or Hermione. Or Severus.
Harry exhaled and opened his eyes, forcing himself to relax. This was
ridiculous. All he was doing was thinking in circles. He resumed walking,
forcing a bounce into his step that he didn’t really feel. He was going to be
in control. He was going to fine. So to hell with this. To hell with this, to
hell with Malfoy, and to hell with Severus Snape. He was going to play
Quidditch.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Ignominy. Shame. Disgrace. A state of dishonor. Dishonour. Humiliation.
Obloquy. Odium. Opprobrium. Reproach. Ignominy.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate myself.
My lips brush the hem of his robes and I feel sickened by my own false
reverence. My Lord makes a pleased noise in his gullet and his thin, thin, thin
lips are stretched in a macabre parody of a smile.
The Dark Lord is pleased.
I easily hide my shudder of revulsion and take my place in the circle next to
Lucius. Poor Lucius—I’m beginning to see that Draco is right. The man truly has
gone mad. But he hides it well. He is a Malfoy; they all hide it well.
Draco . . . I say I chose myself over him. My life over his. My position over
his. I lie to myself. Have I always lied to myself this much? Albus, in his
habitually not-quite-condescending manner, told me that I was a coward. That I
could no longer hide behind his robes. That I was now responsible for my own
actions—my own messes. Albus said that I have always been a coward. Albus is
right.
“I kissed Harry Potter.”
And now is not the time for this.
I push the thoughts aside and seal them up behind cynicism and Occlumency. I
have years of practice in doing so. Years of control.
Control is a choice. I choose to spy. I choose to torture, rape, and murder in
the name of my Pride—my delusion. And then, once the reality of my own
arrogance became apparent, I chose to bear the exact same yoke in the name of
Good—of the Great Albus Dumbledore. I choose to curse my students and lay the
tattered remnants of my dignity on an altar at the Great Albus Dumbledore’s
feet. Kyrie eleison. My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Though, I suppose I forsook you first. That assertion is an issue of pride at
this point in my life and little more. But I know why I’m here, why I do this.
I may bow to Albus, but I’m not here for him. Or for myself. Perhaps I’m here
for my mother, gentle soul that she was. A bit mad, though. One had to be a bit
mad to be married to my father. And perhaps—just a little bit—I’m here for the
boy as well. I’ve invested far too much time and energy to allow something as
small as my Master destroy him. Either of my Masters.
Again, after supper, he took the cup, gave thanks, and gave it for all to
drink, saying: ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood, shed for you and for
all people for the forgiveness of sin. Do this for the remembrance of me.’
Death Eater meetings make me wax religious. I’ve never known why.
The honors are given. We’ve all bowed to the Dark Lord. The boy wants to call
him by name. The boy is a fool. There are forty of us on this night, all of our
faces hidden by white masks except for Wormtail. Pettigrew, it seems, is not
properly ashamed to be in the Dark Lord’s presence. Pettigrew is also a fool,
if for different reasons.
I am the greatest fool of all.
Lord Voldemort shifts in his chair. Nagini is nowhere in sight. “Severussssss .
. . what has the old fool been doing?”
I feel my spine straighten a bit. My voice is smooth. “He continues attempting
to teach Potter Occlumency, but the boy has not yet mastered it. It seems that,
even when not in my . . . care,” don’t have to feign my sneer at the word, “the
brat has some sort of block.”
The Dark Lord nods as though this is nothing new.
“The Order of the Phoenix has reached an impasse with the Minister of Magic. It
appears Fudge would like to have more control over the Order’s activities and
is demanding a list of its members. He still fears that Dumbledore is
attempting to overthrow him. Also, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher
was found unconscious in a broom cupboard in Hufflepuff Tower on Friday. No
one—least of all she herself—has offered an explanation for this incident. The
students seem to think that she is in league with you, my Lord . . .” The
statement trails off into a question and I pause.
A spindly-fingered hand waves the implication away and gestures for me to
continue.
I rake my mind for acceptable going-ons. Unfortunately, only the unacceptable
ones come to the forefront. Draco will do anything to escape the Dark Mark.
Potter wants to have relationship of some sort with me. Or at least sex. I am
losing control of everything.
I wonder what the Dark Lord would say if I told him that.
‘Crucio’, most likely.
Instead I say, “Potter has also taken to studying more often. He spends a good
deal of time in the library. I’ve discovered that the Headmaster issued him a
pass for the Restricted Section in secret. The boy goes there at night with his
invisibility cloak. Dumbledore may be planning something, but I have not been
able to ascertain what exactly. I have not yet been able to . . . redeem myself
after the incident last term.”
Again the Dark Lord nods as though none of this came as a surprise. Flat red
eyes turned from me to Lucius and I can’t help but relax a fraction.
“Lucius . . . .” Long, white fingers beckon the other man forward. “Come here,
little Luciussss . . .”
For a moment, Lucius doesn’t move, only stares at the Dark Lord blankly. I
cannot repress a shudder. Being called forward is either very good, or very
bad. For Lucius, it is most likely the latter. What did Azkaban do to him?
Someone in the circle titters in amusement. It can only be Bellatrix. Only she
would dare. I doubt she even comprehends the danger anymore, anyway. She’s mad,
though I suppose we all are to some extent. Ignominy. The laughter seems to
snap Lucius out of his trance and he moves forward—lurches, really—to kneel
down before the Dark Lord again. I feel the ache of an old pain in my left hand
and stalwartly ignore it. This is not yet my time for punishment, though that
will no doubt come in time.
“Luciussssssss . . .”
And Lucius shudders.
“What news have you from your little Dragon?”
My heart stops. Draco? What on Earth would the Dark Lord be expecting to hear
from Draco?
“None, my Lord.”
The long nails on the edge of those bone-like fingers tap a slow, irritated
cadence on the wooden arms of his chair as our Master leans forward a bit and
it is obvious that he is no longer pleased. “None . . .?” he hisses menacingly.
Lucius simply stares up at him from his kneeling position below the dais.
“None.”
Red eyes narrow. “I am unable to comprehend your continual failuress,
Luciussss. And I am most displeased with them. I have given you opportunity
after opportunity to redeem yourself and yet you continue to disssappoint me.
Not only have you failed to reassert yourself at the Ministry, you have managed
to further stigmatize your name through your recent . . . reclusive behavior.
Because of you, that bumbling idiot Fudge is at risk of being depossssed. Do
you really believe that that muggle-protecting fool Dumbledore will allow
anyone else as incompetent as Fudge in office right now? Our enemy is wily,
little serpent, and you may well have given him the opening he needs. And now
you come to me with yet another failure.”
He pauses, as though giving Lucius some leeway to make an appropriate excuse.
But Lucius just remains silent. A part of me is pleased—Lucius’s failings will
make my own seem less severe—but the part of me that once admired the arrogant
Malfoy wishes that the man would speak up and defend himself.
The Dark Lord’s eyes flare menacingly. “It isss not wise to dissssapoint me,
Luciussss . . .”
Lucius seems to shake himself again, as though finally realizing the danger
he’s in. The poor fool.
He grovels before the makeshift throne and I feel my stomach turn at the sight.
“My Lord, I am loyal—”
“It is not your loyalty I question, servant. It is your competence.”
“I—”
The wand in the Dark Lord’s left hand twitches slightly. “Crucio!”
Ahhh . . . And so it begins.
Lucius writhes on the floor for our master’s pleasure. He doesn’t scream until
the second Curse. Does it feel the same to him, I wonder?
“Finite Incantatem.” For a moment it looks as though the Dark Lord will be
merciful, but then it comes again. “Crucio!”
His body jerks and spasms gracelessly and I force myself to look on with
clinical dispassion. There is nothing beautiful about this type of pain. It is
dirty, effective, and all-consuming.
“Finite Incantatem.”
Gasping and choking now. Sobbing.
I feel no pity for him.
“Crucio!”
The fourth Curse falls and Lucius’s convulsions work the mask free. He’s bitten
his tongue at some point in time and a bloody froth has gathered at the corners
of his mouth.
And then it stops. I’m disappointed and apprehensive as Lucius regains the
presence of mind to resume groveling. Four Crucius Curses. Perhaps six minutes
or so passed during Lucius’s punishment. Four Curses—a bit extreme, even for
the Dark Lord. Whatever Lucius is supposed to be doing is important. Or perhaps
he merely thought he could drive Lucius out of whatever inner world the man
seems to be retreating into. That used to be a muggle theory during the 19th
century: that which would drive a sane man mad can also drive a mad man sane.
Or so I’ve been told. Lucius’s groveling is noticeably half-hearted. He doesn’t
look any saner to me.
“Enough!” Apparently the Dark Lord has also noticed this. He shifts unhappily
on the dais and makes a dismissive gesture, clearly disgusted by Lucius’s
presence. “At least I know there are others who can be depended upon!”
He turns towards a shadowed corner behind him and hisses in parseltongue.
Wormtail squeaks as though bitten by something and scurries off towards the
shadows behind the dais. A door opens and closes somewhere that I cannot see.
Lucius has retrieved his mask in the meantime and taken his place at my side
once more. He does not appear to be aware of the blood and saliva dribbling
from his chin to his robes as he puts his mask back on. I can feel my lips
thin.
The Dark Lord turns back around and I can feel his eyes boring into me.
“Severussssssss . . . Come forth.” Lucius is forgotten.
I stride forward with a confidence I do not feel and drop into a graceful
kneeling position. “Yes, my Lord.” It is always about humility. I have become
extremely good at being humble when the situation demands it. I press my
forehead against the cold grainy floor in prostration.
My God, My God . . .Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me repulisti, et
quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?
“You too have failed me, have you not, my impetuous Severussss . . .?”
Dum affligit me inimicus . . .
Yes. “Yes, my Lord.”
Ostende nobis Domine, misericordiam tuam.
I can feel him smiling down at me. “Honesty is so refreshing, Severusssssss . .
.”
I will never get used to this.
“CRUCIO!!”
I try to relax before the curse hits, but it’s no use. The world vanishes in
pain and I can taste blood in my mouth.
Burningachingfirepaintearingspiningdrowningdyingdyingdying………And then it ends.
My head is spinning and it feels as though all my muscles will burst through my
skin with even the slightest movement. I pull out of a fetal position and
return to kneeling.
“So very refreshing . . .”
There is bile in my throat.
“You will, of course, try harder, Severusss? If you cannot worm your way back
into the old man’s good graces, I hardly see the need for you to remain at
Hogwartsss . . . Particularly when your unique skillsss can be of so much more
use to me here . . .”
I swallow the vomit attempting to crawl up my throat. “I will not fail you
again, my Lord.”
“No. You will not.”
I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of own spit and sweat on the floor,
commingled with Lucius’s blood. Et salutare tuum da nobis.
“Crucio!”
Don’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscrea
mdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscr
eamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’t
screamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdo
n’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscream
don’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscre
amdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’ts
creamdon’tscreamdon’tscream—
“Finite Incantatem.”
It hurts. I hurt.
Just breathe.
I’m given a moment to collect myself and sent back to my place with a flick of
his wrist.
“Thank you, my Lord. You are most merciful, my Lord.” The words come
automatically.
I take my place next to Lucius and wonder when or if the point of this Summons
will become apparent. It is unusual for me to be Summoned while school’s in
session.
My body hurts and my hands tremble. I ignore it.
“Bring it forth,” the reptile hisses suddenly.
Lucius stirs beside me, his cold eyes shadowed by more than pain. Is this why I
was called here? What is it? I want to ask him. I remain silent.
The hidden door behind the dais opens once more and Wormtail staggers forth,
two large pieces of something wrapped in brown paper. He rounds the dais,
puffing as though exhausted, and stoops over to carefully set the wrapped
pieces on the ground. I can barely resist the urge to crane my neck forward for
a better look. Lucius makes as though to take a step backwards and I reach out
and seize his wrist, careful to shield the action from the other. Our Master’s
eyes, however, are riveted to Wormtail’s mystery objects.
The little traitor is carefully peeling back the paper, his movements blocking
my view. The Dark Lord is practically purring with pleasure as he watches the
unveiling. Finally done unwrapping the pieces, Wormtail steps away and I find
myself looking at what appears to be a large broken sheet of black glass. It
may have once been circular in shape, but now it lay in jagged pieces,
carefully arranged so that, if fused together, they would form a sheet of glass
roughly a meter in diameter. It seems as though it was split cleanly in two
from side to side, and then the remaining halves were shattered.
A small gasp leaves several members of the circle and a figure I recognize as
Bellatrix steps forward. Her voice is only slightly muffled by her mask.
“Master . . .?”
Lord Voldemort rises and descends to stand above the glass, Nagini slithering
out of the shadows to join him. His triumphant smirk fills me with dread and
all I can think of is how green the boy’s eyes are.
“Yesss,” he hisses in response to Bellatrix’s unasked question. “Those of you
who helped in the search will be greatly rewarded. This,” he gestured, “is the
key to victory.” He raises his eyes and his gaze sweeps over us all. “Kneel,
Death Eaters.”
We kneel. And then the spell begins.
He’s chanting in parseltongue and I can feel his magic washing over me. It’s
cold and dark and cruel. I lock my mind against his power even as I feel my own
magic rising in response. So this is what he wanted . . . The magic of his
forty strongest servants for a spell. My skin begins to tingle from the build
up of unreleased magic.
The pieces of glass begin to tremble. Then they rise and start to glow. I close
my eyes against the glare of their light.
“Shhhhhhleghthhhhhhhslllllluhaaaaaaarrrrrrrth . . .”
The light becomes a physical thing—an assault on my senses—and I feel as though
I’m going to burst from the sheer amount of power inside me. It’s as though I’m
dying of thirst and trying to drink the sun itself. I can’t stop it. The Mark
on my arm burns and aches by turns. Everything is on fire. I am on fire.
Harry . . .
And then he draws it all in—the light, the heat, the magic, and the thirst—all
of it is torn out of me through the livid, bloody brand on my arm. Some of the
others are screaming. I bite my tongue instead.
By the time I’ve spat out the blood and forced my eyes open, it’s over. The
Death Eaters have all fallen over. It seems as though I’ve gotten dirt in my
eyes from lying on the floor. Lucius lay motionless at my side and many of the
others are so still they seem dead. I feel dead. My entire body feels sunburnt
from magical exposure and there’s a tremor running through me that I cannot
control. Even my magic feels drained and worn. I barely have the strength the
push myself up to a sitting position; Apparition is out of the question right
now.
The Dark Lord is standing above the now whole circle of glass. It’s no longer
black, though; now it looks strange, almost like luminescent water. The Dark
Lord waves his hand and conjures a black clothe. It flutters down gracefully,
covering the glass. My eyes rise to meet those of my Master and he smiles at
me. It is a chilling, skull-like expression.
Domine, exuadi orationem meam.
“Tell me, Sssssseverussss . . . The boy . . . Has he a loyal Knight and true?”
I tell the truth. It feels strange on my tongue. “He has no one, my Lord.”
He has me.
Et clamor meus ad te veniat.
The Dark Lord laughs as the others begin to stir. He turns his back to us and
returns to the dais. Nagini follow and coils up at his feet while he sits. “You
are all dismissed,” the Master hisses in a whisper. He sounds oddly pensive.
I stagger upright, trying to ignore the pain in my body. Lucius also rises and
follows me to the door. The others are not far behind. I wrench off my mask in
irritation as we cross the threshold of the Manor. There is a loud pop behind
me as someone Dissparates.
“Has he a loyal Knight and true?”
Something about the question eats at me.
Lucius falls into step beside me as I slip my mask into my robes. I look at him
for a moment out of the corner of my eyes and some flash of altruism bids me to
lean over. “You are going to get yourself killed, Malfoy! And me along with you
and your idiotic theatrics.”
Lucius reaches up and removes his mask very slowly. He turns with the same slow
profundity and offers me a wan, bitter smile that makes my skin crawl. “So? It
would probably be better that way. You’d know better, Severus, if you had seen
what I’ve seen.”
I take an involuntary step back and he turns away, tucking the porcelain mask
into a sleeve in his robe. “Take care of my son for me, Severus.”
He Dispparates with a loud pop before I can reply. It’s just as well—I’ve
already failed at that task anyway. I can only protect one person at a time and
Draco has somehow fallen out of the running.
“Has he a loyal Knight and true?”
I Apparate to the edge of Hogsmead, Lucius’s words chasing one another about in
my mind meaninglessly. If you repeat something long enough, it becomes
meaningless, the words lose form and identity and the syllables bleed together
in your mind. “Take care of Draco for me, Severus.”
Severus. Lucius only calls me by my first name when he wants something, but my
instincts tell me that that isn’t the case here. Is he truly so far gone? The
gates of Hogwarts appear in the distance. I adjust my path accordingly.
I am sorry, Lucius. For you. For Draco. For Narcissa. But sacrifices must be
made and I long ago resolved to only make the ones I could live with. Draco
wants me to be a buffer zone between himself and Dumbledore. He thinks to use
me to save himself—and his family—without paying any of the consequences for
the Malfoy’s ill-conceived alliance. I am paying for my own sins; I will not be
burdened with the sins of another.
I deleted everything from Draco’s memory. His message. His warning. And Harry
Potter sitting on my lap looking for all the world as though he belonged there.
I will not allow some idealistic Gryffindor and an upstart Malfoy to upset my
tightrope act. Even if that Gryffindor is Harry Potter and that Malfoy is one
of my own. Control is a choice. I will be in control. I will not fail; I will
not fall. Not to the Dark Lord, not to the Great Albus Dumbledore, not to a
pint-sized dragon, and certainly not to small hands, green eyes, and an overly
conspicuous scar. I will die first.
And I will not allow Harry Potter to occupy any more of my time than necessary.
. . . Or so I tell myself.
Do this for the remembrance of me.
I meet with the Headmaster. Make my report like a good little spy. Albus asks
me about Potter. Says that he’s worried. Prods me to “get to know the boy.”
Shut up, Albus. Shut up. I can only protect one person at a time. Shut up.
Albus is a bastard, but I can only glare and ignore him. Why is he doing this
to me? But I know better than to protest. I know this game too well. All the
ducks in a row. Hammer down the nail that sticks up. The squeaky wheel gets the
oil.
How dull.
I kissed Harry Potter. I want to say it. To scream it. To shove it down his
throat until he chokes on it and can no longer feign ignorance. I pressed him
against the wall, tore open his robes, and slid my hand down his pants. I
tasted that mouth, pet that pretty sixteen year old skin.
I want Albus to stop pretending that it’s alright and that it’s normal. I want
him to stop trying to use this to bind the boy to him. Or maybe to bind me to
him. The old man’s not ignoring this out of the goodness of his heart. Or
perhaps it’s just pity. Pity for that pretty little boy who’s going to die.
Pity for me, who already has. But this is my life, not a study in pity.
So shut up, Albus.
I slapped Harry Potter, I want to say. He came to me, put his heart at my feet,
sat in my lap and begged me with pretty demands, unaware of the erection
beneath him. He ran his hands through my hair. And then Draco came in and
caught us, caught me robbing the Gryffindor cradle, and I was ashamed so I
Obliviated him. And I was ashamed and threw Harry off of me. And I was ashamed
and slapped that sweet, protesting mouth. That hungry sixteen year old mouth
that tastes like butterscotch.
“I would not ask this of you if I didn’t have to, Severus.”
Shut up, Albus. That’s what I want to say. Shut up and stop pretending that
it’s alright that I desperately want to rape a child. Because he is a child and
no child can consent to such a thing. Harry Potter cannot consent to such a
thing. So shut up.
But I can’t say it.
The squeaky wheel gets the oil. Liars. The squeaky wheel gets replaced.
And so I remain silent.
Not a squeak.
And the Headmaster leans back and sits through my reports and stops promoting
pedophilia. Thank you, Albus.
“Lucius wants me to look after Draco,” I murmur at the end. My voice is empty.
Detached. “I Obliviated him last week. He knew I was a spy.” The lies flow so
easily these days. Ignominy.
Albus watches me sternly over the rims of his ridiculously small glasses. As if
he didn’t know before. “I trust you did no damage.”
“Draco is fine.” For now. “But I cannot protect him.”
“Send him to me.” He strokes Fawkes’s breast absently, his piercing blue eyes
boring into me painfully. “The Order can look after him. Are you sure that you
do not know what the glass could be for?”
I shrug tiredly. No. No. No. “I have no idea.” I’m so tired. “But he did say
something odd . . .”
The hand stroking Fawkes abruptly stops.
I swallow heavily. “He said to me, ‘has Potter a loyal Knight and true?’ Do you
know what it means?”
The blue eyes look away and I have to hold back a sigh. But Albus looks
troubled and that in turn troubles me. Irritating as it may be, I prefer that
unnerving, omnipresent twinkle to its alternative.
“Sir?”
The old man just shakes his head unhappily. “I do not know, my boy . . . But I
will look into it. Will you be on hand to do some research? I understand that
you’ve been quite overwhelmed between teaching, Voldemort,”—I hide a
flinch—“and my own demands on your time.”
“I will do what I can.” I always have. “Have you made any more progress in the
Occlumency?”
“No . . .”
Fawkes makes a noise in the back of his throat. It sounds oddly indelicate for
a phoenix in full plumage.
“Severus—”
“No.” If I let him finish the question, then I probably will be forced to
agree. “I will not resume the lessons.” Please Albus. Please. I don’t want to
hurt him more than I must. I cannot be alone with him more than I must. And the
memory of him lying helpless and semi-conscious on my office floor is more
arousing than I ever let the reality seem.
But Albus’s eyes are hard. “Severus, he saw the meeting tonight. Yet again.
Madame Pomfrey had to sedate him. This cannot continue. And whatever is
blocking his Occlumency is also acting a sieve for his magic.”
“He saw the meeting tonight. Yet again.” I ignore the comment—deny it. Potter
should never have to see me prostrate myself on the ground. Kiss another man’s
robes. Beg for mercy. I feel ill.
“He’s already a wizard of respectable power.” The hissed words taste like ashes
on my tongue, and the compliment, unintentional as it may be, is almost a
physically painful admission.
“Respectable,” the Headmaster agrees, “but not formidable. You can feel his
power in him, Severus, just as I can. That power must be trained before he
loses his temper and lashes out at someone.”
Something in the way he says that—the firmness . . . the fear—makes me take
notice. What happened this summer? The answer suddenly seems much more
important.
“I cannot trust the boy.” And I can’t. I cannot trust him anymore than I trust
myself. He’s too determined. Too curious. And too bold by half. As much as I
envy and even crave those traits in him, they terrify a part of me. I can only
protect one person at a time. And I can’t protect Potter from himself if I’m
too busy trying to protect myself from him. “And he needs you, Albus, not me.”
The words seem to stun us both and I wonder how they even made their way to my
mouth. But they’re true and Albus knows it. Harry—Potter needs a father. A
mentor. A friend who is not a child. Because no other child has ever born the
weight that Potter does. Except, perhaps, a poor pureblood boy of little import
who came to Hogwarts a hundred and fifty years ago. Albus was bred for
Grindelwald just as Potter has been bred for the Dark Lord, though Albus was
never so intimately connected to his foe. I know this and he knows this. He can
offer Potter a support that no one else can. Potter needs a man to respect and
emulate.
I am not that man. Nor do I want to be. What I want is something wholly
different, and probably even worse than demanding a child save the world.
Sad blue eyes look at me for a long moment and I find myself shifting in my
chair uncomfortably.
The squeaky wheel gets replaced.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
And then Albus smiles and looks so proud of me that I have to close my eyes and
turn away. Fawkes ruffles his feathers as Albus begins to twinkle at me. I
scowl.
“You are a man of curious, but profound wisdom, my friend.”
No, Albus. I am a child molester.
Squeak. Squeak.
When I’m finally given leave to return to my quarters, it’s three am. “He saw
the meeting tonight. Yet again.” The boy is asleep in my doorway. How he even
found out where my quarters are is beyond me, but he found my workroom, didn’t
he? Potter, it seems, is also a man of curious wisdom at times.
Tomorrow I will have to remember to move my workroom.
I step over him, take twenty points from Gryffindor, and, after closing the
door on his comfortably rumpled body, summon a House Elf to wake him and
shuffle him back to the Hospital Wing where he belongs. It’s cowardly and I
know and I don’t care. I’ve found that—to an extent—I can live with being a
coward. Besides, students should not fraternize with teachers. It is an unequal
relationship. The Hogwarts rules even say so.
I’m too old for this.
Before I go to sleep, I give twenty points to Gryffindor. For tenacity.
. . .
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
One person at a time, Severus.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Chapter End Notes
     Translated_from_Latin:
     Kyrie eleison. - Lord have mercy.
     Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me repulisti, et quare tristis
     incedo, dum affligit me inimicus? - For Thou, O God, art my strength,
     why hast Thou forsaken me? And why do I go about in sadness, while
     the enemy harasses me?
     Ostende nobis Domine, misericordiam tuam. - Show us, Lord, Thy mercy.
     Et salutare tuum da nobis. - And grant us Thy salvation.
     Domine, exuadi orationem meam. - O Lord, hear my prayer.
      
     Et clamor meus ad te veniat.- And let my cry come to Thee.
      
     *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
***** Four II: The Homage Due *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                              ~ Chapter Four II ~
                                The Homage Due

                     *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                              “Come take my body,
                              Come take my soul;
                              Come take me over,
                              I want to be whole.
                              Come take my body,
                           Come take my soul . . .”

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

It was raining. Large, heavy drops of water fell from the iron gray sky and
splattered messily on the muddy earth. It was strange to see when one really
thought about it; a single drop made only the faintest noise, but a million
drops together created a sound that drowned out even the thunder. There was
always strength in numbers—even for something as small and finite as a single
raindrop.
The lesson was not lost on the creature that was once a cocky young man named
Tom Riddle. His red eyes stared out at the overrun, weather-beaten landscape of
Riddle manor as he let the rain soothe away his headache. It was the boy, of
course. He was distressed about something. Their connection only seemed to be
getting stronger as time passed and the idea of killing the child—though still
the most practical thing he could think of—was slowly but steadily losing its
appeal. It would be like cutting out a part of himself. Of course, push come to
shove, the Dark Lord had little problem with sacrificing a pound of flesh for
his birthright. He had already given his mortality, had he not?
But there was such spirit in the boy! And such power. Waste had always
disgusted Voldemort. Not that he thought that Harry Potter would join him . . .
No. He was not such a fool as that. But the boy would make a lovely ornament if
properly controlled . . .
Red eyes flickered from the window to the large, round sheet of glass on the
table across the room. It was still covered, of course. Proper control . . .
That would be the key. The child—because however phenomenal his luck, he was
still a child—could then be disposed of at his leisure.
“Still,” he hissed in parseltongue to the heedless rain, “there is something
terribly romantic about a torn prince trapped in a tower for all eternity.”
The Curse indeed . . . The thought flickered through his mind darkly and
Voldemort hissed out a harsh laugh.
One hiss answered another as Nagini slithered out of the chair she’d been
curled up in. ‘Master . . .?’
He watched the snake with an expression that was as close to fondness as he
could emote. “Just thinking of a joke I heard,” he hissed, cruel mirth still
evident in his voice.
The enormous green serpent slid across the moth-eaten carpet towards him. ‘A
joke . . .? And am I to be privy to this . . . joke?’ she hissed softly. ‘Or is
this still about your big water-glass?’
Voldemort’s head swayed from side to side slightly. “Big water-glass, pet?”
‘The glass that looks as though it is made from water,’ his familiar explained.
The Dark Lord turned back to the window and watched the wind howl outside as
the serpent pulled herself up off the ground to wrap around one of his legs and
drag herself up his body. “That is a gift. But it is also part of the joke.”
‘Oh?’
He patted her triangular head as her coils adjusted around him more
comfortably. “Yes . . . That ‘water-glass’ is going to kill two birds with one
stone.”
Nagini issued a sharp hiss of irritation. ‘Stop being cryptic. You’ve found a
way to deal with your traitor, I take it?’
“Yes . . . And I have managed to secure my very own spy in Gryffindor Tower.
Well, . . . a spy after a fashion.”
He sighed, a shadow of a smile warping his non-existent lips as he stared out
at the rain. It was beginning to abate somewhat. “Revenge is so delicious . .
.”
‘I don’t understand why you simply do not kill him,’ Nagini hissed grumpily.
She did not like the rain. It made her feel heavy and lethargic. ‘If he merely
goes back to the old man with news, he is a security risk. Would it not be
wiser to torture him for information and then dispose of him?’
“Perhaps . . . Though it would be a good deal less fun. There are many ways to
destroy a man, pet, and psychological pain can be far more effective than
physical pain at times.”
He stared out the window a bit more, apparently lost in thought. Finally he
sighed and turned away to stride over to the table which held the glass. Nagini
shifted and hissed happily as they drew closer to the blazing fire. Voldemort
ignored her and reached out to run a long, white finger over the thick cloth
that covered the glass.
“No . . .” he hissed at last. “I am well pleased with this plan . . . Whatever
torrid little affair Severus has involved himself in with Potter is most
amusing . . . and most advantageous.” The cloth felt cool and smooth under his
touch. “He will either place the boy precisely where I want him: helpless . . .
desperate . . . Or he will kill him. Either way, Severus and the bumbling old
fool lose, and I win.”
Nagini loosened her coils around her master so that she could slide to the
floor. ‘And how do you know that his attachment to the Potter is such that he
will care whether or not the boy lives or dies?’
The man looked down at his familiar once more, fondness again shining in his
crimson eyes. “Because, though my treacherous little serpent is a passionate
man, he is not a man given to indulging in passions. For Ssseverus to have
fallen so far, so fast . . . and at such a great risk to himself . . .? No. I
doubt that even he truly knows how deeply he is already in by now. And by the
time my plan unfolds, he will have nowhere to turn. Besides, he takes back
nothing of great use to the old fool. Better the enemy that you know to the one
you do not. I control what Dumbledore hears now. And Dumbledore does not even
know it. If Severus thinks he can be Potter’s Knight, I’ll not begrudge him of
that. He is, after all, a Slytherin—and we have never been long in the habit of
denying ourselves our . . . amusements. But he will pay the price for such
audacity. The boy will fall into my web—he’ll not be able to help himself. But
he will soon grow weary of shadows and turn to Severus, and then . . .” He
trailed off, one finger still running up and down the cloth.
Nagini watched him for a moment with sharp black eyes. Finally she nodded. ‘A
pity, though,’ she hissed as she curled up at the fire. ‘I rather enjoyed
Snape’s . . . spirit . . .’
Voldemort turned back to the covered glass and hummed something under his
breath. “Perhaps my little serpent will surprise us yet . . . Severus has
always managed to surprise us. If he chooses not to let Potter die, neither of
them will be fit to stand against me.” The stroking hand made a fist. “The
Light will crumble and the wizarding world will fall at my feet like a rotten
fruit.”
‘And the boy?’
This time when Voldemort smiled, it displayed all of his fearsome teeth. It was
a macabre expression, devoid of pleasure or humanity. “He is a bothersome
thing, is he not? But he is a part of me and I am a part of him, though he
remains unaware. After all, is not this summer proof of that? I at least waited
until I left Hogwarts to dispose of my family. He and Severus both have such .
. . ample spirits. They would be quite lovely together. Tragically beautiful, I
suppose. And their ruin right under Dumbledore’s nose would be a delightful
display of my powers.”
The snake let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. ‘Your torn
princes in the Tower, then?’
“Perhaps.” Voldemort’s eyes flared ominously. “After all, I always was a
romantic at heart.”
 
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Narcissa Lenora Black Malfoy kicked an errant House Elf that did not have the
sense to move out of her way as she strode down the hall to her husband’s
study. The Elf squeaked in pain as it bounced off the wall, knocking into a
table and sending an ancient Egyptian vase crashing to the ground. Another Elf
immediately appeared with a crack and repaired the vase before dragging off its
unconscious fellow.
Narcissa did not notice.
Lucius had refused to tell her what had transpired at the last Death Eater
meeting, instead choosing to lock himself in his study for the past three days.
”I don’t want to worry you,” he had once told her when she pressured him for
answers. It was his way of saying “none of your business.”
So now, naturally, all she could do was worry. Draco had not yet replied to her
last letter and she was beginning to fear that he would make no headway with
Severus. Threatening to reveal the Potion Master’s position as a spy was always
an option, but doing so would burn a bridge that their family might yet need.
She could only hope that they had taught their son well enough to maintain his
equilibrium in this little game. Draco had inherited far more of her spirit and
far less of his father political sense than she would have liked. If he became
too impatient, there was no telling what he might do. He still had not forgiven
Potter for rejecting his offer of friendship, even after six years, and the
rivalry that formed as a direct result of his little temper tantrum was now an
immense stumbling block. If he had been a bit wiser and attempted to approach
Potter once again later, perhaps they would not be in this situation. Draco’s
problem was that he did not consider the long term plan. Even a Weasley and a
mudblood could be tolerated for the sake of getting closer to Harry Potter.
Narcissa knew that if Snape scorned Draco’s entreaties, then the boy was liable
to do something rash once more.
All in all, it wasn’t something that she was willing to risk. And Lucius’s
recent behavior had done nothing to put her fears to rest. Despite all the
evidence to the contrary, he still seemed to believe that the Dark Lord was
their best chance of survival. That Draco and Narcissa both seemed to
wholeheartedly disagree did not appear to factor into his logic—if he was even
basing his decision on logic.
Lucius’s stay in Azkaban prison had affected him in a terrible way. Although
he’d seemed to be recovering at that end of the summer, now his condition
seemed to be deteriorating. He had “good times” and “bad times.” During the
good times, he was the man she married: ruthless, brilliant, and devious—a
shocking mix of gentlemanly blue-blooded British kindness and cold, merciless
ambition. But during his “bad times . . .” He was dreamy, childish, and
apathetic. He became ghost-like . . . It was as though he wasn’t really all
there. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him in that hellish
prison, but every time the word was even mention, Lucius would simply shut
down. Literally.
Unfortunately, the “bad times” were beginning to happen more and more
frequently. Narcissa was at her wit’s end. It was happening at home, at the
Ministry, and—worse still—at Meetings. Fudge’s faith in the Malfoy family had
already been shaken by that escapade in the Ministry as it was; Lucius’s
behavior was only serving to encourage the Minister to further distance himself
from the pureblood family. This had to stop. It was becoming more and more
apparent to everyone but Lucius himself that he was no longer fit to make the
decisions required—especially now that everything was so uncertain.
Something was going to have to give. And, though Narcissa’s heart was breaking
and she desperately wanted her husband back more than anything in the world,
she was also a Slytherin. A survivor. And she would protect her line—no matter
what.
The ice blonde stopped in front of the heavy oak doors that barred the study
from entry, her rich blue silk robes swirling about her ankles. With a wave of
her wand and a muttered counter-curse, the door swung open a crack and she
carefully stuck her head in. “Lucius? I am coming in.”
When she received no response, the stately woman cautiously pushed the doors
all the way open and slowly entered the room. She did not put it past her
husband to hex her should the mood so take him; it had happened before.
“Lucius?” The doors swung silently shut behind her. “Luc?”
The heavy velvet curtains in the large room were drawn tight, blocking out the
sunlight trying to fight its way through the eastern gallery windows. Rows of
books lined the walls of both the first and second levels and a narrow spiral
staircase lead the way from the richly carpeted floor to the balcony level that
spanned across three walls. A large oak desk was set in front of the windows,
facing the door so that whoever sat behind it would be backlit by the morning
sun, and two heavy chairs with a matching marble-top table were facing the
desk. The fireplace was directly across from there, the hearth cold. The scents
of carbon, rum, and cold cinders hung in the air, mingling with the usual
smells of ink and parchment and giving the room a burnt-out aftertaste that
stung the nose. A few potted plants were strategically placed, along with a few
bits of elegantly idle furniture, in a moderately successful effort to make the
room look not quite so enormous. A frieze was painted on the high ceiling
depicting some ancient Malfoy heir in a duel with a nameless opponent, the
Malfoy crest of arms set on the tequila sunset backdrop between the two
combatants. The scattered Black and Malfoy portraits in the room watched her
impassively as she strode across the emerald carpet to the black, low-backed
chaise in a far corner next to the fern.
A glitter on the desk caught her eye as she passed and the woman paused, her
attention arrested by a large ring of keys setting on the desk. It was her
husband’s set of the Master Keys for the Manor.
She gripped her wand’s handle tightly in her pocket. “Accio,” she whispered
under her breath. The key ring jingled slightly as it floated over to her, but
the man across the room did not stir. She quietly pocketed the key ring before
resuming her course.
Lucius was sprawled indolently across the chaise, an empty bottle of rum in one
hand and the porcelain Death Eater’s mask still clutched in the other. The
black robes she’d last seen him in were still draped over his slender frame and
were extremely rumpled. A very faint sour odor hovered about him. It was
obvious that he had not moved more than necessary since his return three nights
ago. His eyes were closed. “Go away, Narcissa.”
His wife ignored him and settled herself gingerly on a free spot beside him on
the chaise. She reached down with a dark frown and pried the bottle of alcohol
out of his hand. “You’re drunk.” Her tone was cold and disapproving.
“I failed him. Again.” A slight tremor moved through his limbs. “He does not
tolerate failure.”
Narcissa stared silently at the bottle in her hand, unsure what to say. After a
moment she set the rum on the floor and let out a quiet sigh. “Tell me what
happened.”
He reported the events of the Death Eater meeting in cold, dispassionate words,
slightly slurred by alcohol. His wife listened to the events in silence, trying
to glean any and all useful information from his tale. When he finally stopped,
Narcissa remained silent for several moments, her green eyes staring down at
her tightly clasped hands. She wished that she knew what he was
thinking—whether or not this was a “bad time.”
“What word from Draco?” Lucius asked quietly. He almost sounded like himself.
Narcissa started suddenly at the familiar echoes in his voice before turning
her face from him and smoothing her skirts unnecessarily. “Nothing.” Her voice
was flat with displeasure. “Nothing yet, at least. I am going to write him
again tonight.” She turned to look back at him, but his eyes were still closed
so he could not see the hard expression in her eyes. “You cannot keep doing
this to yourself.”
Lucius opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. All he could see way the
dark overhang of the balcony above them. “I will do as I please.”
“Then he will kill you!” the woman at his side hissed. “Don’t you even care?!”
His eyes did not move away from the ceiling. “Tell Draco I want him to stay out
of this. This is not his battle. And I want you to go out to the country. Go
see my mother. She will take care—”
Narcissa’s face suddenly appeared in his line of vision, her delicate features
twisted in anger. “Shut up! Can you not hear yourself? This is Draco’s fight;
your bungling has made it his fight! And I will not hide behind your mother’s
skirts! I warned you that it might come to this, but you never listened to me.
Was your Lord,” she spat the word with disgust, “really worth your House? Our
son?!”
Narcissa pulled away from him and, against his will, Lucius found his eyes
following the petite woman as she stood. Her eyes, he noted, were colder than
he’d ever seen them before—green ice. He pushed himself upright and the motion
made his head swim. “‘Ciss . . .” He reached out blindly for her, only to grasp
air as she took a step back. He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that she’d
gotten hold of his wand. When had that happened? He reached out for it again,
but she took another step away from him and raised her own wand threateningly.
“Narcissa . . .”
“You are no longer fit, Lucius.” She slid her husband’s wand into her pocket
beside his key ring, still keeping her eyes and wand trained on the man with
whom she was bound to spend her life as she began to rapidly back away. “You
are no longer fit to decide your own fate, let alone my own and that of our
son. I am relieving you of your duties as the Head of our House.”
Lucius stared at her blankly and tried to push himself up to his feet. His body
immediately rebelled and he fell to his knees as a wave of nausea overwhelmed
him. He grasped at the chaise to steady himself and stared at his wife, a sneer
disfiguring his waxy face. “Narcissa, give me back my wand.” He held out his
hand, unaware of the tremors moving up and down his arm. “Give me back my wand
and I will forget this ever happened.”
Narcissa raised her own wand slightly in warning. “No, husband. I have allowed
this to continue for too long already. You can no longer lead this family; it
is time you stepped down.”
Lucius pushed himself shakily to his feet, unable to overcome the effects of
the alcohol he’d been drinking. “And who will take over then?” he sneered. He
staggered forward a step. “You?”
Narcissa’s heel hit the door and she stopped, her voice still steady. “Yes.
Me.”
“Woman, give me my wand!!” Lucius’s legs gave way and he fell to the floor and
retched. The acrid scent of bile and partially digested alcohol immediately
filled the dry air.
One hand wrapped around the door handle as she watched her husband shudder
while his body expelled the excess alcohol from his system. Her eyes filled
with tears at the sight and revulsion turned her stomach. “I love you, Luc.”
She dashed out the door before her husband could recover, slamming it behind
her. She fumbled in her pocket for his keys, shoved the proper key in the lock
and turned it until she heard the dull click that meant the bolt had slid. Then
jerked the key out again before resting her head against the wood. Her body
trembled at the groan of outrage Lucius emitted on the other side of the door.
“Lucius . . .”
Narcissa rested there a moment, strangely exhausted and unable to block out the
curses and cries that traveled through the wood. There was a shriek followed
immediately by the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the study. The woman
pushed herself up with a quiet sigh.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect us all, Lucius,” she whispered to the
wood, but there was only silence from the other side. “All of us.”
The matriarch pushed herself away from the door and turned, her skirts
billowing around her. “Quipple!”
A House Elf immediately appeared next to her with a crack. The tiny creature
had to run to keep up with his mistress’s long strides. “Yes, Mistress? You is
calling for Quipple?”
She did not look down. “I will be taking care of Household affairs once more,
Quipple. You are to be charged with the care of Master Malfoy again. The same
rules apply now that applied this summer. He is to have any and everything he
desires, short of his wand or a means of escape. He is not to receive any
papers or post and under no circumstances is he to be allowed out of the
study.” The human stopped and fixed the Elf with a hard stare. “Do you
understand?”
The creature wilted under the imposing gaze. “Yessum.”
Narcissa nodded once and resumed her stride. “Go to the study now and see to my
husband.”
“Yessum.” The Elf vanished with another crack.
A delicate hand rose and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Lucius would have to be
moved back to the basement when he passed out—at least until things were a bit
more manageable. For now he was too disoriented to even think of escaping the
study, but he’d be furious with her once he sobered up. The basement was also
far safer than any other room in the Mansion. For everyone. And she’d have to
write to Draco again—he was taking far, far too long to arrange things on his
end. If push came to shove, she would have to go to Dumbledore for help and the
very thought of doing that left an acrid taste in her mouth. It was probably
best not to let Draco know what had happened with his father, though; he had
more than enough to worry about at the moment.
Narcissa pushed open the doors to the bedroom she had shared with her husband
for the past seventeen years. She immediately went to her makeup table and
unlocked the top drawer where her stationary equipment was located. She paused
suddenly, staring at her hands. Small tremors were running through them.
Narcissa’s gaze slowly rose from her hand to look at her reflection in the
mirror. The woman looking back at her was stern and cold—emotionless. It would
have been a perfect mask if not for the tears in her eyes.
A sudden crash made Narcissa jump and she turned in her seat to stare down at
the keys lying on the floor. Lucius’s keys, she realized hazily. They must have
fallen out of her pocket. For a moment Narcissa looked down at the key ring.
Then she turned back around, laid her head down on the rich oak finish of her
makeup table, and began to sob silently.
 
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“Okay. Let’s look at this objectively.” Hermione ran a hand back through her
hair in frustration and looked down at the scroll rolled out in front of her.
Ron was once more perched on one of the sinks behind her and peering over her
shoulder. Hermione was seated on the floor which—oddly enough—was not flooded.
Another odd thing was that there was no sign of Moaning Myrtle. It was unlike
her to be so quiet, but neither Gryffindor was quite willing to look a gift
ghost in the mouth. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was the only place they could
meet without fear of being overheard and the only time they really felt free to
have their so-called “Harry Chats” was when they were certain that Harry was
firmly ensconced in the Headmaster’s office for tea.
The couple did not feel up to interrogating Harry about what was going on since
such a course of action invariably led to the green-eyed boy clamming up, or
just flat out ignoring them. Hermione and Ron were almost a little bit afraid
to rock the boat. Because of this, most of their interaction was limited to
small, silly things. Quidditch, school work, gossip, and occasionally trying to
figure out what was wrong with Malfoy occupied most of the Trio’s time. Harry
was still unusually quiet though.
“What’s that?” Ron asked, indicating the parchment at which Hermione was
scowling.
“A list of our suspects. It’s fair to say that most of this started when Harry
came to Headquarters, right?”
Ron grunted and the girl pointed with her quill to the name at the top of the
list. “Well, Headmaster Dumbledore knows what happened at the Dursleys’. I
think that that has a lot to do with whatever is bothering Harry. And there’s
always their weekly tea sessions . . . He has to know something about whatever
is going on in Harry’s head. Not a whole lot happens at Hogwarts without his
knowledge.” She pointed to the next name. “Then there’s Professor Snape. He was
really quiet at the start of the term. In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding
Harry. But now he and Harry are constantly at each other’s throats. I had
really thought that maybe they had worked something out this summer, but
something had to have set the two of them at one another again. We just need to
figure out what. He also spent a whole week alone with Harry at Headquarters in
July when Professor Lupin was away for the full moon.”
“We should have been able to visit,” Ron groused. “At least for his birthday,”
Hermione sighed. This was an old topic and she didn’t feel like arguing over it
anymore. Instead she pointed to the next name: Alastor Moody. “Moody was the
one who went to get Harry from the Dursleys’, so he must know something about
what happened there, too. On top of that, he spies almost as much as Professor
Snape. If something’s going on, then he’d know.” She tapped the scroll with
quill again. “Then there’s Malfoy. He’s been acting very oddly this year. He
may have done something to Harry, or he could be plotting something. He can’t
be trusted at all.”
Ron looked over the list pensively from a moment, chewing on a fingernail.
Suddenly he straightened. “Hang on, what about Professor Lupin?”
The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment, the quill in her hand hovering
over it in indecision. “Why the Professor?”
He shrugged. “They were alone for most of August. He had to have seen or heard
something. It’s not like they just sat in their rooms crying all month and
didn’t talk to each other.”
Hermione beamed up at him and wrote down the werewolf’s name in her clean,
precise handwriting. “Good thinking. But where does that leave us now?”
“Mmmm . . .” Ron began to tick the names off on his fingers. “Dumbledore,
Snape, Moody, and Lupin.”
“And Malfoy,” ‘Mione added absently.
“And Malfoy,” he agreed with a frown. “But if whatever’s wrong with Harry
started this summer, what would the Ferret have to do with it?”
The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment. “True, but I would rather keep
an eye on him than not.”
Ron nodded and tugged lightly at his tie. “Alright, but let’s ignore him for
the moment. Other than the fact they’re all professors and Order members, what
do any of that lot have in common?”
“They were all alone with Harry at some point right after he reached
Headquarters.”
Ron slid off the edge of the sink to plop down next to his girlfriend. “So were
right back were we started.”
“The Dursleys.” She looked over at him, agitation plainly written on her. “When
he told you he knew about us . . . Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”
The boy shook his head. “Not a peep. But he wanted to, I think. He wants to
tell us, but for some reason he won’t.” He scowled. “It’s like he doesn’t trust
us anymore.”
A gentle hand rested on his tightly clenched fist and he looked up, suddenly
startled by Hermione’s proximity. She smiled at him gently. “Or he’s trying to
protect us.”
He snorted and leaned back. “That does sound more like him. But we don’t need
his protection. We’re his friends; we’re supposed to be helping him.”
Hermione shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know if we can help him, Ron. After what
happened to Snuffles, I don’t even think he wants us to try.”
“Well, we have to do something!”
“Wh—”
A sudden giggling from one of the stalls interrupted her and Hermione stood
abruptly, her wand drawn. “Myrtle! Is that you?”
There was another giggle, confirming that it was the ghost, and Ron also rose
with a scowl. Hermione’s gaze flickered to him in warning as the girl tried to
smother her irritation. She turned back to the stalls. “Well, come out then.
How long have you been skulking about down there?”
There came a sudden flushing sound in the third stall to the right, immediately
followed by a tremendous gush of water that shot straight up into the air.
Hermione quickly grabbed her bag off the ground and set it on the sink as the
floor was flooded. As it was, both Ron and Hermione both got spritzed with
falling water as the dead Hufflepuff emerged to hover over the toilet, a
petulant scowl on her translucent features. “I wasn’t skulking anywhere,”
Myrtle whined, oblivious to the flood she’d caused. “This is my bathroom.
YOU’RE the ones who don’t belong here!” she snarled at the end.
Ron jumped slightly despite himself. It never failed to disturb him to hear her
voice go from sugary sweet to rabid dog in the space of two words. “What do you
want, you great floating—Ow!!”
Hermione trod on his foot and shot him a dark look as he started hopping up and
down in pain. The ghost’s eyes watched the two of them in a blatantly
calculating manner.
Hermione smiled at the other girl sweetly and pocketed her wand. “Myrtle . . .
did you have something to tell us.”
The spirit drifted down towards them slowly, sniffling melodramatically. “I
don’t know if I want to tell you.” Her eyes flickered from Hermione to Ron
behind her vaporous glasses and her face contorted unpleasantly. “Especially
HIM—nasty little boy.”
Ron growled and took a menacing step towards Myrtle, only to be stopped by
Hermione’s arm.
“Nonsense,” the living girl replied, still smiling earnestly. “Ron’s just . . .
He just doesn’t know how to tell you he likes you.” Myrtle frowned, obviously
not liking to be told that her opinions were nonsense, while Ron immediately
began making choking noises behind Hermione, earning himself a subtle kick in
the shin.
“We’re here to help Harry,” Hermione continued, still smiling. “You remember
Harry, don’t you?”
At the word ‘Harry,’ Myrtle’s cheeks immediately turned a less ghastly shade of
silver and her large eyes widened. “Ooooh! I like Harry.” She batted her
eyelashes at them with an expression that was most likely supposed to be coy.
“I’ve invited him to share my toilet.”
Hermione’s cheeks were beginning to ache from holding onto her smile. “How . .
. nice . . . of you, Myrtle.”
“That’s what he said,” the ghost gushed happily. Ron was making a strange
wheezing noise behind Hermione by this point in time. Myrtle glared at him
spitefully. “He’s such a nice boy. Unlike SOME people!”
Ron snorted.
“We’re trying to help him,” Hermione repeated, ignoring her boyfriend. “He’s
been acting a bit queer lately. Do you know anything that can help us?”
Myrtle smirked. “Maybe . . .”
Hermione was practically chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Do you want to
help us?”
The phantom’s eyes lit up again. “You mean like a club? A secret club? I’ve
never been part of a club before . . .”
“I wonder why,” Ron muttered.
Hermione trod on the boy’s foot again and hissed at him to be silent, but
thankfully, Myrtle was so enamored with the idea of a club that she didn’t hear
him. She turned back to the spirit. “Exactly like a club,” she confirmed, still
smiling.
Myrtle’s eyes suddenly narrowed and she swooped down so that she was right in
front of the pair. “This isn’t some dirty little trick, is it?”
“No!” the Gryffindor girl rushed to assure her. “Really!”
Myrtle shoved her face directly at Ron, catching him off guard. “And you? What
about you?”
“Err . . .” The redhead leaned back in an attempt to escape the girl looming
before him. “Good to have you aboard, mate . . .?”
Myrtle did not seem to notice his obvious lack of enthusiasm because she
immediately beamed. “Okay.” She pulled back and smirked. “The first night of
term I was in the dungeons trying to find the Baron. Peeves was picking me
again.” Her eyes suddenly seemed to glow. “He said I had SPOTS!!!”
“Er . . . Myrtle?” Ron coaxed in an attempt to get her back on topic.
She frowned at him, but resumed her story, her ghostly hands smoothing down her
robes as she spoke. “Anyway, I was down in the dungeons when the door to
Professor Snape’s workroom burst open and Harry came running out. He didn’t
even see me. He ran right into some little First Year who was lurking heading
up the stairs—knocked the poor girl into one of the empty classrooms, he was
going so fast. He looked . . . upset. Then Professor Snape came out of the door
and looked after. He looked upset too. For a minute, it looked like he was
going to go after Harry, but instead he said a very naughty word and hit the
door frame with his hand. Then he went back in the workroom.”
Ron immediately pulled away and let loose a low growl that sounded remarkably
like the words “mangy, greasy, slimy git,” but Myrtle still wasn’t done.
The ghost leaned forward again conspiratorially and smirked. “Then, about a
week ago in the evening, I saw him go down to the lab again. He left the door
open just a crack, so I peeked in. They were arguing. Harry wanted the
Professor to do something, but the Professor said that it wasn’t allowed and
he’d get sacked. Harry called him a coward and the Professor ended up slapping
him.”
Hermione gasped and Myrtle made no effort to hide her excitement at being able
to share such gossip.
“Harry fell down onto the floor holding his cheek and the Professor rushed over
to him and scooped him up and held him for a moment.” She pulled back and
sighed. “I don’t know what happened after that. I heard someone coming and
left. But they looked close.” Her eyes gleamed. “Very close, if you get my
meaning.”
Hermione looked away from the vulture-like expression on the ghost’s face and
felt slightly sick. Ron remained very, very quiet. The muggle-born turned to
face her boyfriend. “Ron . . .? You don’t think—”
“If it is . . .” Ron’s voice sounded scratchy and weak, “If it is . . . like
that . . . and they—I mean, if Harry didn’t want to . . .” He turned to look at
her and his eyes were dark. “He’d have told us, right?”
“Harry and Snape hate each other,” the girl murmured helplessly.
Ron wordlessly pulled Hermione into a hug. Myrtle watched the couple pensively.
After a moment, Hermione pulled out of the embrace and turned to the spirit.
“Myrtle, have you told anyone else this?”
“No.” The dead girl looked affronted. “Why?”
Hermione’s eyes were steely. “This is a secret club, Myrtle, and we are the
only members, so you mustn’t tell anyone else, alright? You have to keep this a
secret.”
The ghost pouted but acquiesced after a moment. “Alright. But only if you tell
Harry to come visit me in my toilet. It gets so lonely in here.” She cast them
a backwards glance before zooming back to her U-bend without a waiting for a
reply, sensing perhaps that they needed space to deal with what they’d just
learned.
The chime sounded, warning that it was almost curfew, and Hermione began to
gather her things. Ron watched her in silence for a moment.
When he spoke, he sounded oddly distant. They hadn’t had much cause for
laughter this year, it seemed. “‘Mione . . . If they were—”
“Myrtle might be mistaken.”
He frowned down at her. “Maybe. But if they were . . . And Harry wanted it . .
. What do we do then? Do we tell? Or . . . or . . . what?”
Hermione stared blankly down at the ground, her hands limp on draw strings of
her bag. “I don’t know, Ron.” She bit her lower lip and watched her reflection
blur as ripples moved through the water that covered the floor. “I really don’t
know.”
 
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
My dearest Dragon,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I understand that your
dear friends have been ill and I hope that whatever they have has not been
catching. Your father sends his love. He has been away at business meetings
quite often of late and I worry that our close friend may be working him too
hard. His headaches, I fear, have not improved.
Also, he worries over your grades, particularly in Potions. He knows that you
have been having difficulty in Severus’s class of late. I know that you have
told Severus of the circumstances imparted to you in one of my previous
letters, but you have yet to notify me as to his reply. Though he and your
father were never truly close, he has always seemed to hold a certain fondness
for you. I hope that he will take this into account, as well as the extra-
credit I know you have been working on, when tallying your final marks.
But surely all this dull news and chiding bores you. Tell me, have you made any
new friends? I know how important it is to you to expand your horizons. Your
father is still set against such things, but I can only see advantages in the
possibilities.
All of our friends are doing well, although your aunt’s migraines seem to have
become worse. Our dearest friend is most pleased with himself. It seems that he
has bought, through foreign contacts, a new mirror. It appears to be magical,
but we do not know its purpose. He has mentioned that it may be something his
little cousin would be enamored with and has proposed sending it to him.
Personally, I do not think his cousin will care for it and suggest you buy him
something to make up for the shoddy gift. It is important to use such
opportunities to your advantage, gift of my heart, when they arise. Perhaps
your dear Potions Master will be able to help you select something. As history
has shown, he has impeccable taste where that darling child is concerned. It is
wise to accept help when one can.
Otherwise, though, poppet, there is little news to report from home. Work has
been as dull for your father as ever and I have suggested a change in careers.
This damp air is not good for his health and I am in favor of all of us taking
a holiday in Australia or the Americas if his health does not soon improve. The
Minister, bless his heart, also seems concerned with your beloved father’s
health, as does our old friend. I fear that one or both of them may insist that
he visit Saint Mungo’s until he is well enough to resume his duties. My heart
shudders at the thought of being without its guiding light. I could perish from
loneliness. But hearing from you heartens your father.
Despite what he may do or say, he truly loves you, little Dragon. You are his
pride and the joy of my heart. Please write back and know that we are always
thinking of you and I eagerly await your letters.
You loving mother,
Narcissa Malfoy
 
The wind blew Draco’s hair in his eyes as they flickered back and forth from
word to word. He couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, the coding of the letter was
simple enough to decipher, but he felt as though he were missing great chunks
of information. What message? He honestly could not recall giving Snape any
message of any type. Not this term at least . . .
Silvery blue eyes rose from the parchment to stare at the lake. The sunlight
sparkled over the water almost playfully, but the boy was in no mood to savor
nature. Something had to have happened to him. Something was missing. He tried
desperately to think back over the past few weeks, but could not solidly
remember any real interaction with Snape outside of classes. His brow contorted
in confusion. There were faint images of Snape quarters . . . An argument of
some sort . . .
The memories slipped away from him like silverfish, gone before he could even
really focus in on them. It was giving him a headache.
At his side, his sleek eagle owl hooted softly in concern, the proud creature
nipping his sleeve lightly in a bid for his attention. Acutely aware of how
bewildered he must look, the Malfoy heir frowned and gently rubbed his
familiar’s head.
“I don’t know,” he told the owl, frustration evident in his voice. “It’s like
the memories are there, but—”
Abruptly Draco paled and stopped talking. The answer came to him in a rush and
the realization terrified him. He was alone, without allies, and hopelessly
exposed. And worse yet, he didn’t even know what was going on anymore.
Someone had Obliviated him.
 
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
She stood in front of the mirror in the Girl’s Dormitory and frowned at her
reflection. It was her nose—definitely her nose. That’s why he didn’t look at
her.
Or maybe it was her eyes. Brown was a terribly boring color.
Ronald Weasley’s eyes were ice blue. Hermione Granger’s, a foresty, marble-like
hazel. Even his eyes were the brightest, deepest green she had ever seen. She
had spent hours staring at photos of his eyes. Everyone he loved had remarkable
eyes.
Even that greasy old man. Snape’s eyes were black. Black was a non-color, the
result of a surface absorbing all light rays and never giving anything back.
She had learned that in art class. She was a good artist—one of the best in her
primary school before she got her Letter.
Yes. It was her eyes. Her plain, ordinary, brown eyes.
Nothing about him was ordinary. Nothing was what one expected. She had thought
he’d be taller, but somehow it made sense that he wasn’t. She had thought he’d
be bigger, but there was something to be said for his willowy frame. She had
thought he’d be louder—bolder, but his relaxed, down-to-earth-ness was
beautiful. He was beautiful. And brilliant.
And so much better than Snape.
The man had obviously bewitched him.
Perhaps if she got contacts he would stop looking at Snape and look at her.
He didn’t even see her. Not at the meals, not between classes, not in the
common room. He didn’t care. Even when he had knocked her down that night in
the dungeons, he didn’t see her.
But she saw him. She saw Snape assault him that night. She saw the way he
looked at the man sometimes.
Watching Harry Potter was an art, and she had always been a very good artist.
She would get contacts over Christmas holiday. Black ones. Maybe then he would
see her.
He had to see her soon. After all, she was so much better than Snape. Than a
teacher. Than a man. Her family would be so proud when they started dating.
Their children would have his eyes, of course, and her smile. She had a pretty
smile.
He would see her and realize that they were obviously meant to be together. He
would see her—really SEE her—and love her just as much as she loved him. She’d
heard about him for four years straight. Every letter home, every photograph,
every adventure and exploit. She knew him, knew him better than she knew
herself. She knew his favorite food, his favorite color, his favorite tea. She
knew that he was afraid of Dementors and the werewolf Remus Lupin was a friend
of his parents. She knew that he didn’t eat Hagrid’s treacle fudge and he
didn’t talk about his muggle relatives. She knew that, just like her, he was
from the muggle world.
And she knew that he was having an affair with that monster Snape. She had seen
it.
But that wasn’t his fault. No. Because Harry Potter did not have affairs with
Severus Snape. Snape was a creep. He was unfair and picked on them all. Snape
got his kicks from tormenting little children. Snape was wicked.
Everyone knew that.
Snape had seduced Harry—forced himself on the poor boy. She shuddered to think
of what her beloved must have endured. Everyone knew that Harry hated Snape.
And everyone knew that Harry Potter as most certainly NOT gay, or homosexual,
or whatever those people called themselves nowadays.
Harry was just confused. This was all Snape’s fault.
But she would help him; she had to—no one else could. They had a bond—a deep
soulful connection. He would see her and realize that.
She would make him realize that.
The girl stared into the mirror for a moment longer, picturing herself with
black eyes. She would be beautiful.
Yes. Everything would be perfect. She’d be loved by Harry and accepted by
everyone: the students, the staff, the Headmaster, the Weasleys—everyone. She
would save Harry and everyone would see how marvelous she was, especially
Harry.
Because she loved him.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
***** The Lion Bound Come Dawn *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                               ~ Chapter Five ~
                           The Lion Bound Come Dawn
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
  “So the priests and the prophets and all the people heard Jeremiah speaking
                     these words in the house of the Lord.
 “Now it came to pass, when Jeremiah had made an end of speaking all that the
                        Lord had commanded him to speak
unto all the people, that the priests and the prophets and all the people took
                                 him, saying,
                            Thou shalt surely die.
          “Why hast thou prophesied in the name of the Lord, saying,
 This house shall be like that Shiloh, and this city shall be desolate without
                                an inhabitant?
    And all people were gathered against Jeremiah in the house of the Lord.
   “When the princes if Judah heard these things, then they came up from the
                   king’s house unto the house of the Lord,
        and sat down in the entry of the new gate of the Lord’s house.
   “Then spake the prophets unto the princes and to all the people, saying,
  This man is worthy to die, for he hath prophesied against this city all the
                          words that ye have heard.”
                              - Jeremiah 26: 7-11
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
His palms were sweating. His head ached and his back hurt a bit, but his palms
were sweating and that was a problem. That was also why the vial slipped from
his fingers. He saw it fall—really he did—but he couldn’t seem to make himself
move to catch it. When it hit the floor, it exploded with a loud popping noise,
sending bits of glass and pungent oil everywhere. Every one in the room froze.
A pair of deep black eyes set above a large, hooked nose narrowed dangerously.
Heavy, oily hair moved slightly as the man turned, venom in his eyes and hot,
blistering hatred in his voice as he hissed, “Twenty points from Gryffindor for
sheer stupidity!”
The boy looked up from the shattered vial on the floor and stared blankly at
his Professor from behind thick, coke-bottle lenses.
The girl at his right side stiffened indignantly. “But, sir, he—”
“And twenty five from you, Granger, for condoning stupidity and another fifty
from Finnegan for failing to recognize said stupidity and stop both of you from
acting like idiots! Now clean up that glass, Potter!”
Severus’s robes belled out around him as he turned back to the board, oblivious
the outraged mutter that spread out among the students in the classroom. Not
even the Slytherins were willing to risk the ire their Head of House lately,
particularly during or after Sixth Year Advanced Potions. For the past two
weeks, Snape’s famously incendiary temper had been stoked to new, never-before-
seen heights. At first the phenomenon had seemed localized around Harry Potter,
the Potions Master’s usual source of rage, but then the mood started to spread
to all of Gryffindor, then to Hufflepuff, then to Slytherin, and finally to
Ravenclaw.
It was the inclusion of Ravenclaw that caught everyone’s attention. Although it
was well known that Snape favored Slytherin outrageously, he had always been
nothing short of painfully even handed when it came to the House of the Raven.
By the end of three weeks, all the Houses were down a record 1150 points total
(210 of which Snape had actually docked from his own House), Gryffindor alone
had received a record breaking 127 detentions, half of the Hufflepuff First
Years literally burst into tears when Snape entered the room, a Hufflepuff and
Ravenclaw prefect had both been stripped of their badges by the enraged man,
and most of the faculty looked like they would keel over if Snape said “boo” to
them over tea. But of course, saying “boo” would require that the prickly man
actually spoke to them, which he did not.
What was even stranger, though, was that Harry Potter—who was more often than
not the recipient of insults that had driven Padma out of the Potions classroom
in tears from simply hearing them—remained uncharacteristically silent. In
fact, he seemed to be flat out ignoring the man, which only served to incense
the prickly Professor further. In retaliation a variety of colorful adjectives
and adverbs were used to describe everything from Harry’s hygiene to his to his
ability to think—or the lack thereof—regardless of whether or not Potter was
present to hear them. The more astute students noticed however that Snape
remained silent on the subjects of both Harry’s parents and Sirius
Black—omissions that no one could quite puzzle out.
The fact that most of Snape’s temper seemed to be turned against his Sixth and
Seventh Year classes—both of which had students from all four Houses because
they were the Advanced courses—only served to spread Snape’s latest insults
around the school even faster. Theories about Snape’s behavior seemed to become
fixed conversation topic, raining down in the four Common Rooms like post owls
on Christmas Eve. Everything from Snape was in trouble with the Dark Lord, to
Snape was pregnant (the latter assertion being the only working theory the
Third Year Hufflepuffs were willing to contribute) were tossed about with
relish. Colin Creevey had put forth the novel idea that Harry and Snape were
involved in a tempestuous affair and had broken up—unfortunately he did this in
Harry’s earshot and he learned firsthand just how strong the slight Seeker was
when a camera was flung at the muggleborn’s head. The incident quickly put to
rest any further rumors about the Potter Heir, if only within the confines of
Gryffindor Tower.
The Camera Incident also became Potter’s only real statement on the Snape’s
behavior; snarling and profanities that made the underclassmen squeal were not
considered statements. Ron and Hermione also remained silent on the subject.
Hermione, because if Harry was not going to stick up for himself in the face of
Snape’s wrath, there was little she could do, and Ron remained silent simply
because he was not there for the majority of the conflicts.
Though Harry’s OWLs (and some coaxing from the Headmaster) were barely enough
for him to scrape into Advanced Potions with, Ron only received an Acceptable.
The youngest Weasley son was actually pleased with the result though. He’d had
more than enough of Snape to last a lifetime. Unfortunately, without his
explosive temper, and in the face of Harry’s sudden passivity, the tension in
Potions simply seemed to rise and rise, spilling out into the hallways,
classroom, meals, and Common Rooms. Dumbledore either didn’t notice or didn’t
care, because he had yet to step in, so Hogwarts was simply left to stew in the
juices of Snape’s discontent.
The entire school was a pressure cooker waiting—desperate—to blow. And then,
the day before Halloween, it did.
Harry walked around the worktable, knelt, and waved his wand above the mess of
glass and swine educe on the floor of the dungeon. Hermione watched him with
worried eyes while Snape scrawled more directions on the board in a jagged,
angry hand. From his seat across the aisle, Seamus also watched his friend.
Harry’s behavior had been queer enough without Snape tormenting the poor boy
even further. Though he’d not quite had the nerve to say anything, Seamus
rather fancied Harry—just a teeniest, tiniest bit—and he was beginning to
really worry about his Housemate.
His sea-green eyes flickered up from Harry and he was surprised to find himself
staring into Hermione’s hazel gaze across the aisle. He frowned at her and
mouthed ‘What’s wrong with him?’, careful to keep his back to the girl beside
him, Hannah Abbot. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she looked over at her Housemate
in blatant consideration. He bristled in response, frustrated that one of the
infamous Trio would consider him so beneath their secrets. He could feel his
upper right lip twitch towards a sneer and would have turned away if Hermione
had not mouthed the word ‘Lunch’ to him before turning back to the Vision
Potion they were brewing. Seamus turned back to Harry with a dark frown.
Hannah poked him in the side and he scowled at her.
“Snape’s watching us,” the petite ash-blonde girl murmured as she stirred her
cauldron. “We don’t need anymore attention from him. Anyway, it’s almost time
for you to add the acromantula eyes to your potion.”
The Irish boy nodded grudgingly and reached out to get the dish of large black
orbs Snape had provided each student with at the start of class. He nearly
dropped it in startlement when Harry suddenly gasped in pain. Hannah rescued
the eyes from the Gryffindor’s carelessness as the boy blanched at the hunched
over form to his right. There was blood on the floor. Seamus dropped to Harry’s
side and wrapped an arm around the other’s shoulder as he tried to get a good
look at the boy’s wounded hand. Harry pulled away, drawing the injury in
towards his stomach defensively.
Green eyes latched onto Seamus and Harry smiled shakily. “It’s just a scratch.
Really, I’m—”
And then Snape was there. Seamus yelped in protest as a strong hand seized him
by the back of his neck and jerked him roughly away from Harry, literally
throwing him back to his table. “Don’t you touch him!!”
The Irish boy cried out in pain as his hip slammed into the corner of the
table. Hannah squeaked in fear and Hermione’s spoon fell from her hand in shock
as everyone else turned their attention to Round Two of the bi-weekly Snape-
Potter Brawl.
Seamus had hit the edge of the table hard, and had to grab it to stay on his
feet. Still breathless, he wheeled on Snape, but the older man was no longer
paying attention to him, his gaze locked onto Harry with a terrible intensity.
“You stupid child!”
Harry flinched uncharacteristically and looked up from his position on the
floor to the man looming over him menacingly. The action revealed a large
bloody gash running across his palm. Seamus winced and Snape leaned over, more
than slightly reminiscent of an enormous vulture eyeing still-twitching prey.
The Potions Master sneered as blood pooled in Potter’s palm and spilled down to
stain the dungeon floor.
“You stupid, idiot child!” the man hissed again venomously, eyes burning with a
nameless emotion.
Harry drew his wounded hand closer to his body, hunching over it protectively,
and remained silent. His face seemed very pale and his eyes looked far too
large through his glasses as he stared at the professor in silence. The cow-
eyed, empty expression only seemed to make Snape even angrier.
The professor reared back like an angry serpent and sneered in contempt at the
boy. “Not simply content to go spilling everyone else’s blood, I see you now
feel the need to be so careless with your own, Mr. Potter. Fifteen points from
Gryffindor for your ever-astounding inability to learn from you plethora of
past mistakes. One would imagine that by this point in time, you would be more
careful around sharp objects—even you should now how valuable blood can be to
wizard. Why you have not yet died is beyond me.”
Harry’s jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. Two vividly red spots appeared on
his cheeks as his uninjured right hand clenched slowly into a fist. For a
moment it seemed like the explosion was imminent—Snape had never gone so far
before, never. But then the teenager simply let out a sudden huffing breath,
closed his eyes, and carefully unclenched his fist. He opened his eyes again
and stared at the man expressionlessly. “I apologize for disturbing class, sir.
May I go to Madame Pomfrey?”
Seamus imagined he could have heard a pin drop in the silence.
Both the Professor’s hands clenched into fists and it looked for an instant at
though he were going to throttle the boy. Instead he spun sharply on his heel
and stalked to his desk. His voice was a guttural growl: “Clean up your mess
and get out of my sight, you pathetic waste of magic. To think that Lily Evans
wasted her life on you. And back to work, you lot, before I dock even more
points!”
The boy rose to his feet, looking shaken and far too pale. He seemed to be
trembling slightly. He gathered his books and packed up his ingredients as best
he could one-handed so that they weren’t in Hermione’s way. As he lifted the
last vial, he paused suddenly and turned to frown at Snape’s back where the man
was shuffling papers. Hermione tugged on his sleeve nervously when she saw the
shadows flickering in Harry’s eyes. He pulled his arm away.
“Harry, no—!” she hissed, trying to mind her own potion and keep hold of him at
the same time.
The boy ignored her. “I didn’t ask to survive, you know,” he said softly to
Snape’s back.
Hannah froze in the act of adding centaur hair to her potion and Seamus took an
involuntary step away from Harry, completely forgetting about adding anything
more to his own cauldron. Snape froze in the midst of his sorting and abruptly
stood up straight. He turned with exaggerated slowness and smiled, a horrible
parody of expression, as he settled back against his desk. Harry’s Adam’s apple
bobbed as he swallowed, but he maintained eye contact with the older man.
Snape watched the boy in careful consideration and tilted his head ever so
slightly to the left. “Then you’d have done us all a greater service if you had
died.”
The class watched with a detached kind of horror as all the blood literally
seemed to drain from Harry’s face.
Snape leaned forward slightly, obviously enjoying the boy’s duress, as he
continued. “Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of
value to the world instead of sucking the life out of those around her.”
Everything stopped.
The entire vial of goat’s blood in Harry’s hand fell into his cauldron as he
froze, slack jawed and face unnaturally white as he stared in stunned disbelief
at his professor. The potion immediately solidified, but no one seemed to
notice. The glassware on Harry and Hermione’s table began to tremble and shiver
before exploding with loud pops, immediately followed by the destruction of the
glassware at the neighboring workstations as a wave of uncontrolled magic
rolled off the Boy Who Lived.
Blood, swine educe, and a number of unpleasant things flew as the students
ducked down beneath their tables. No one seemed to quite be able to believe
what they had heard Snape say. He’d gone too far. Potter’s body began to
tremble violently and Hermione, Seamus, and Hannah scrambled to get away from
the impending destruction. Power leaked out of the boy like a sieve.
Snape had finally gone too far.
The two stared one another in the eyes, seemingly unaware of their audience. No
emotion flickered in Snape’s eyes when Potter took a step forward, nor did the
man retreat. He just looked . . . cold. The teenager stared up at him for a
moment longer before whirling around with a strangled shriek and fleeing. The
door to the classroom exploded when his hand touched it, sending bits of wood
and debris everywhere and making the people in the back of the room scream in
fear and pain when they were hit, and the air physically rippled as the boy
ran, knocking down portraits and shaking the castle with every footfall.
Snape—the only person still standing in the room—stared at the hole where his
door had been blankly, seemingly unaware of the blood that slid down from the
cut on his cheek.
Less than three minutes later, the Headmaster appeared in the doorframe, eyes
devoid of any twinkle, and ordered the students out of the classroom. Potions
was canceled for the rest of the day.
The incident spread through the school like wildfire. Seven students were in
the hospital wing to have bits of glass, wood, or metal removed from them, but
no one was seriously hurt, and Harry . . . Harry was not seen for the rest of
the day. Whatever Dumbledore had said to Snape also seemed to have thoroughly
cowed the man because he did not appear for dinner and that evening Dumbledore
awarded every House five hundred and seventy points each for “tolerance in the
face of great adversity,” the old man had explained with a smile. Seamus tried,
and somehow failed, to accost Hermione at every possible moment of the day, and
none of the Trio attended meals.
The next day—Halloween—passed in relative quiet. The pumpkin juice was just as
cold, and the décor just as ostentatious, but there was a muted energy in the
air. Potter skipped all his meals, including the Feast, and Snape remained
holed up in the dungeons for the evening.
In fact, he stayed down there for three days straight after the “explosion” and
none of the Gryffindors were willing to account for Potter’s whereabouts with
anyone outside of their House all weekend. It was a strange thing to see
Gryffindor closing ranks so fiercely and abruptly. Any and all muttering about
Snape was quickly squelched by McGonagall, who seemed to have taken to hovering
over her House like a dragon with one egg. Her own anger was plainly evident,
though, and Slytherins—who were wisely keeping their own council on the
situation—actually took to hiding from the irate witch when they saw her
coming. Seeing the normally impulsive Gryffindor temper held on such a tenuous
leash was alarming, but the rest of the faculty simply seemed to be giving the
whole incident a wide berth.
Perhaps McGonagall’s temper was also why Snape was hiding in the dungeons. Some
people even whispered that he’d been sacked, but no one really believed it was
true. For the most part, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs simply talked (albeit
quietly, and away from the professors) about what a close call that had
been—though no one was sure exactly for whom it had been so close. Dumbledore
acted as though nothing untoward had occurred at all, Professor Kettleburn took
over Potions on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and McGonagall looked ready to
hex anyone at a moment’s notice. Despite the explosion in Potions, the tension
in the school had gotten worse, not better. And so everyone simply sat back and
waited for the other shoe to drop.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Old Ogden’s finest. Finest indeed.
I have been smashed for three days straight. This morning I woke up to find
that Tuesday had somehow become Saturday and all my liquor had mysteriously
vanished in the night. Dear old Albus Dumbledore. Bloody Lord Albus Fucking
Dumbledore. I will poison that man’s food one day, I swear it. Or better yet,
those damned sticky, potion-laced lemon drops.
I hate him.
And I also hate the fact that all my headache and hangover potions are
mysteriously missing as well. And that I can no longer seem to move without
immediately collapsing again. Bloody fucking sadist. Giving me a taste of my
own medicine, no doubt.
There is nothing like waking up in a pool of one’s own vomit and being forced
to remain like that for an hour to promote introspection.
I am not proud of myself. Nor am I proud of my actions over the past three
weeks. Nor am I proud of how pale his face went when I wished him dead.
Nor am I proud of the fact that I meant every word.
I. Meant. Every. Word.
Because it is true. Without Harry Potter, the Dark Lord would not have been
resurrected. Without Harry Potter, I would not be feeling this . . . this . . .
this disgusting desire. Without Harry Potter . . .
The world would be exceedingly dull without Harry Potter.
. . . Merlin’s beard . . . I’ve become a Gryffindor.
That thought alone is sufficient enough for me to force my body up and into the
shower. The room swims sickeningly and a few bouts of uncomfortable dry heaves
accompany me across my chambers to the loo. It takes me much longer to make the
journey than it rightfully should. I cannot find my wand and buttons have moved
from being a stately fashion statement to an insidious device of bondage and
torture. And if I am not mistaken, the vile scent of semen and urine clings
sickeningly to my person.
I retch again at the smell and tear frantically at my collar in frustration,
scratching my throat as painful dry heaves shake me. I’m lucky I didn’t
suffocate last night. Or this morning. Or whenever it was that I managed to
pass out. And I am never ever again going to wear buttons.
I rest my head uselessly on the toilet seat and wonder why my mirror has yet to
make any snide comments. A closer inspection of the floor makes it evident that
I have smashed my mirror. It probably deserved it anyway. But now my arms
suddenly ache fiercely and I notice blood in my cuffs and that my nails are
torn. Suddenly, I’m rather glad that I don’t remember the past two days—they
cannot have been exceedingly pleasant.
To hell with the buttons then. Goddamn, bloody fucking buttons. I loathe
buttons. Why did I ever think buttons were a good idea? I push myself off the
toilet and the room sways again, driving me to my knees. Not standing up again,
then.
Fucking Albus Dumbledore.
Fucking buttons.
Fucking green eyes.
Stupid Severus Snape.
Glass cuts into my knees and hands as I crawl across the bathroom and somehow
clamber into the tub. I turn the water on—all hot, no cold—and curl into a
miserable ball in the corner, directly beneath the spray. My stomach roils at
the noise and my head begins to throb so painfully it feels as though my eyes
are actually bulging out with every pulse. The noise is painful, but it cannot
drown out the noise in my head.
“What have you done, Severus?”
A snort. Derisive laughter. “I’ve merely done as you asked, Headmaster . . .
Did you not want me to be there for him? To talk to him? Well, now I have.”
More laughter. Out of control laughter. Hurts.
“You will calm yourself, Severus.” Cold. So cold. “Now.”
Albus could be so cold when he wanted to.
Never mind that the disappointment in the old man’s voice was a knife through
Severus’s gut. Never mind that the expression on Harry’s face was a brand on
his soul even worse than the one on his arm. Never mind that he bloody well
ached all over and only wanted to go find the boy and—
Never mind all that.
Never mind how Potter looked so perfect curled up in his doorway, or fit so
delicately in his arms. Or pouted beautifully. Or tasted like butterscotch. Or
had the audacity to miss him. Never mind how exquisite it felt to whisper
‘Harry’ when he was alone at night and hold the word close to him like a
secret. Never mind all that.
Never mind.
“Two weeks suspension, Severus.”
Oh, shut up, Albus, shut up. Shut up and leave me to my deviance.
Contempt in those blue eyes. Disappointment. So much disappointment. Merlin,
and the class was a mess. Blood on the floor. Glass everywhere. Quite a mess.
“Get a hold of yourself, man.”
Ah, but contempt and disappoint in those blue eyes was better than pain and
rage in the green ones.
Green eyes.
Damn them all to hell.
I shiver beneath the painfully hot water. What a pathetic, miserable wretch I
am. What a fool. And the memories will not let me be. But that is alright—I
deserve this.
Pedophile.
Murderer.
Monster.
Hot water. Hotter, and hotter, and hotter. I wish it could scald me away, or at
least make me feel clean.
I was right, though; it would have been better if he had died as a baby. If he
had died, I would not be sitting, reeking, hung over, and fully clothed in the
bottom of my shower, desperately missing him.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Fawkes cooed melodiously as a murmur of discontent rippled through the office.
Albus ignored the noise of the portraits and phoenix in favor of crunching up a
cockroach cluster. He rolled the chocolate coated confection about in his mouth
as he watched his deputy headmistress, amusement sparkling his eyes despite the
solemn expression on his face.
Minerva frowned. “I beg you pardon, Albus?”
“I said I would like you to . . . nudge our young Mr. Potter in Severus’s
direction.”
The woman’s lips drew into a thin, sour line and she set her teacup back in its
saucer and on his desk with a loud click. “Out of the question.”
Albus popped another cockroach cluster into his mouth. “Now, my dear—”
“No, Albus! Absolutely not.” Her eyes flashed menacingly behind her glasses, a
lioness defending her cub. “He’s been nothing but ghastly toward that poor
child for years. Potter has enough to deal with without Severus adding to the
pile. He still is not himself after that . . . that incident in Potions on
Tuesday. He won’t even leave his bed!”
Albus sighed heavily and his eyes ceased to twinkle. “Mr. Potter has not been
himself all term, Minerva.” He leaned back and suddenly looked incredibly old
and frail, as though the proper weight of his years had finally gotten the
better of him. “Though his grades have improved and he is growing into his
power by leaps and bounds, he moves about like one who is asleep. Not even
Quidditch has roused him from his melancholia.”
“And you believe that Severus will?” the witch demanded, making no effort to
hide her derision.
Albus steepled his hands in front of himself pensively. “Severus’s behavior—”
“Severus’s behavior is atrocious! He is awful to the boy!” Minerva rose and
began to pace, her skirts whispering silkily about her ankles as she walked.
“Awful!” she reiterated emphatically. The tight bun on the back of her head
shivered with the violence of her pacing and her hands fluttered about like two
snared birds trying to escape. “Pott—Harry is in pain, Albus! He’ll not talk to
me! And Granger and Weasley are keeping mum too. I am at my wit’s end! I can
hardly penalize them when all of their grades are going up—as if it was
possible for Granger’s to go higher—and it’s not as though they’ve done
anything bad, but it is clear that something is very wrong! Even Granger and
Weasley seem to be going along with it now. The three of them barely talk to
anyone outside of each other and Potter’s been in his bed ever since Tuesday
afternoon. The only ones he’ll say more than two words to are Granger and
Weasley and they will not tell anyone anything! I need—I need . . .” She
stopped pacing abruptly, her skirts swirling lightly with momentum, and her
fluttering hands suddenly flew in to cover her face.
She stood still for a long moment and Albus rose slowly, a look of deep sorrow
and concern etched starkly on his face. He reached out tentatively. “Minerva .
. .”
And she released a shuddered breath that would have been a sob from any other
woman. “I do not know what to do . . .” she whispered miserably behind her
hands.
Albus dropped his hands and looked down at the clutter on his desk.
The Deputy Headmistress lowered her own hands and turned, sharp eyes
uncharacteristically imploring behind her small, wire-rimmed glasses. “What
point is there in defeating You-Know-Who, Albus, if there is nothing left for
the boy afterwards?”
He remained silent and Minerva shook her head. “I will not entrust that boy to
Severus Snape, Albus. You may trust Severus with your life, but I will not
trust him with Harry’s. No.”
The old man looked up at her and met her eyes evenly. “Then entrust him to me,
Minerva. Trust me.”
The woman’s lips thinned unhappily as she stared at him for a long moment.
Finally she looked away and smoothed her skirts anxiously, seemingly thinking
over his words. Eventually she sighed, a tired sound. When she looked up, the
conflict she felt was clear in her eyes. “Very well, Albus.” She took a step
forward and pointed a finger menacingly at her old friend. “But if you break
that boy’s heart again, Albus Dumbledore, I will never forgive you.” She
whirled around, dress swelling around her with the motion.
“Minerva?”
She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned to face the Headmaster. “Yes?”
He looked back at her, twinkle noticeably absent. “Thank you.”
She sniffed and stalked out of the room, the door closing loudly behind her and
her heels clicking on the grinding stone steps as she descended.
Albus sat down heavily and stared into the fire for a moment. In all honesty,
he was both furious at Severus and bitterly disappointed in the man. When he
had first discovered the Severus was . . . involved with Harry, he knee-jerk
reaction had been to toss the man out on his ear, if only so that he wouldn’t
have to feel such a keen sense of failure every time he saw the Potions Master.
But it was so out of character for both of them and they were both so terribly
miserable, and they were both dying, bit by bit, in their own way, and nothing
he had done was helping . . .
Albus squeezed his eyes closed in pain and weariness. So many failures . . .
Tom, Severus, Peter, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Harry . . . How many
more could he bear? Was it so selfish of him to think that he could foster just
this little bit of happiness before he died? And if it ensured Severus’s
loyalty beyond any doubt . . . And if it made sure that Harry was loved and
didn’t turn out like Tom and was just a bit more malleable . . . Then so much
the better. Everyone would benefit, especially two of the people who were most
important to him. Harry and Severus would be happy, if only for a little bit.
That was not such a terrible thing, was it?
The old man turned away from the fire in disgust. This was why Harry did not
trust him—why Severus kept him at arm’s length . . . This was why the two men
he considered to be his own children would not look him in the eye. How long
had it been since he had last looked at a person without simply seeing a chess
piece?
Blue eyes opened again. But sacrifices had to be made. He trusted Severus and
Harry as much as he trusted everyone, but that simply was not enough. He needed
more. He needed to know without question that Severus would not return to
Voldemort should the situation so warrant.
He knew that Severus resented him, just as the Potions Master resented himself.
The Snape heir was proud man—he did not bow to anyone unless he felt he had a
damn good reason to do so. Bowing to two masters chafed the man’s ego badly and
was beginning to wear thin. It was easier before Voldemort’s first defeat.
Then, the taste of Severus’s disgust with the Death Eater business was fresh
enough in his mind to distract him from Albus’s machinations. Then, while
Voldemort was gone, Severus’s pride was not so strained; he could breathe a bit
easier and his debt to Albus seemed less severe. Now, though, both Voldemort
and Albus were pulling him in opposite directions and it would not take much to
tip the tenuous balance Severus kept one way or the other. Albus was sick of
having a middle man. He wanted a bona fide spy, and the only way to get that
was to find something to bind the man to him definitively.
Harry was the only vulnerability Severus had ever shown in all these long
years. He’d be a fool if he didn’t take it. Though he was loathe to use the boy
in such a callous fashion, it was really the best course of action available.
Originally, he had brushed Severus’s preoccupation with Harry off as a Life
Debt. Then he just thought it was genuine dislike. Third year, he had thought
that Severus’s zeal to capture Sirius and keep Harry in the dark about the
whole thing was bred simply from a hatred for Sirius. But then he’d been so
frantic—almost panicked—when Harry had vanished at the Tri-Wizard Tournament
that Albus had begun to suspect there was a bit more to Severus’s preoccupation
with Harry Potter. A preoccupation that, in retrospect, was rather alarmingly
close to fanatical obsession masked as hatred. If he ever really did manage to
get Harry expelled, Severus would probably be beside himself after the initial
glow wore off.
And then there was Harry. Harry had never seemed to give the other man any sort
of notice until the end of Fourth Year, and even then it was only cursory
interest. But Severus was a stabilizing force for him, and the only thing
besides Quidditch and Voldemort that the boy seemed to pay any heed to anymore.
And the indications of the Scaccarium and carunculous were concrete and
absolute: without Severus the Light would fail, and, if deprived of Severus,
Harry would die. They might be able to win if Severus’s and Harry’s . . .
‘interactions’ ceased, but Harry would not survive the final battle. No matter
how he arranged the pieces of changed the boards, without Severus Harry would
die, and, in most of the arrangements, Severus died soon after.
And he was not going to let that happen. To either of them. He was going to
save them even if it killed them.
It was rapidly becoming clear to him that Severus would accomplish nothing with
Harry if left to his own devices. So then a little push was necessary. Albus
had hoped that, by telling Severus he was on his own in this, the Potions
Master would take some initiative and not do everything humanly possible to
sabotage this relationship. Apparently, though, he had underestimated Severus’s
curiously paradoxical self-destructive urges. Though the man might balk at
anyone else “ruining” or threatening his life, the former Death Eater seemed to
have no qualms about doing so himself. Or perhaps it was possible that his
concern for Harry was such that it outweighed him normal admittedly self-
involved first responses. Given the two people he was dealing with, Albus was
willing to believe anything was possible. But whatever the reason, it was
creating an unnecessary stumbling block.
It was time to put an end to this childishness. He may not be able to force the
Severus into the boy’s arms, but he could certainly give the man a good, hard
shove in the proper direction.
Albus straightened up and arranged his robes about himself more neatly before
removing one of his ever-present tins of lemon drops. He really could not get
enough of them. The fact that this particular tin was laced with Calming Potion
also helped, though. Setting the tin on the desk beside him, the old man
removed two scrolls from a drawer in his desk. The First scroll had arrived by
way of a post owl this morning. The creature had looked rather irate when it
flew into his open office window and dropped its burden on his desk. It hadn’t
even stopped for payment before leaving in an irritated rush of feathers that
had made the molting Fawkes squawk in protest.
The paper of the scroll was thick and expensive and the heavily spelled large
wax seal of the Snape Family stood prominently on the front, the heavy tome,
crossed rapiers, and the circle of the serpent biting its own tail in the
backdrop showing in sharp, brilliant emerald relief. There was no addressee,
but the Crest made it obvious for whom it was intended.
He set that scroll aside with a sad look and took out a Phoenix feather quill,
dipped it in his inkwell, and turned to the second scroll. This was merely a
blank general scroll that students used for lessons. He scrawled out the words
“Come and see me immediately. – A.D.” and muttered an incantation. The scroll
vanished in a puff of gold smoke, leaving only the lingering scent of caramel
in the air.
Albus settled back in his chair, ignoring Fawkes’s soft, supportive croon and
muttered another incantation. A steaming cup of tea appeared next to him with a
pop, but he did not touch it beyond charming it to stay hot. He had a feeling
he’d be needing it by the time he was done.
“Dobby?”
The House Elf appeared with a loud crack. His normally bright eyes seemed
watery and his ears dropped pitifully. Even his Hogwarts tea towel, almost lost
beneath the bright gaudy swirl of his mismatched additions, looked a bit less
crisp and smart. He shuffled forward, apparently unaware of the sock on his
left ear, his tennis-ball eyes swimming in unshed tears. “Yes, Master
Dumbledore, sir?”
The old man smiled at the Elf and held out his tin of candies. “Would you like
a lemon drop?”
The Elf shook his head and the Headmaster retracted the proffered tin of
candies. “What have our boys been up to then?” he asked, gesturing for the
little creature to take the seat Minerva had just vacated.
Dobby pulled his tiny frame up into the chair and squeaked in surprise when the
seat resized itself to fit his proportions and rose so that he was at a
reasonable height with his employer’s desk. He fidgeted with his tea towel for
a moment, wringing the fabric nervously in his hands. “Winky is watching
Professor Snape like Headmaster Dumbledore is asking, sir. She is telling Dobby
that Professor Snape is waking up at today at two o’clock, sir, and is then
going into the bathroom and taking a shower in his clothes, sir.” The Elf gave
a sigh so low it seemed to have risen up from the floor. “He is being in a foul
mood all yesterday, sir. There was screaming and crashing about, sir. And much
glass breaking. Tinkle, from the pantry, is going in to ask if Professor Snape
is needing help and he is hexing her twice last night, sir. Winky is having to
take Professor Snape’s wand and is hiding it in his study. Now none of the
Elves is wanting to go clean up the mess he was making. We is afraid that the
Professor is being cross with us, sir.” He shivered. “Dobby is not being
scolded by Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape, sir, but Winky says she is not
minding because Master Barty used to be having him his fits too. Winky is
saying that this is the mark of a passionate man, sir. But Dobby . . . Dobby is
thinking that Professor Snape is just being wicked, sir—”
Suddenly the Elf’s already large eye widened impossibly and he blinked stupidly
as though drugged. “What a positively horrid thing to say.”
He immediately surged forward, and it was only the intervention of Dumbledore’s
aged hand pressing firmly against his forehead that stopped the Elf from
smashing his face into the edge of the desk as punishment.
“None of that now,” the human admonished firmly before Dobby could injure
himself.
The Elf pushed against Dumbledore’s hand in protest, his yellow-green eyes
rolling in distress. “Dobby is not to be saying such things about Hogwarts
Professors! Even if they is being wicked and is hurting the Master Harry Potter
sir!”
Albus blinked and wondered if the Elf was calling him ‘sir’ or if ‘The Master
Harry Potter Sir’ was Harry’s actual title to the little creature. Dobby
strained forward again, reminding Dumbledore once more of his self-abusive
tendencies. He held his hand firmly against the pressure and smiled faintly.
“Well, little one, perhaps you should not, but in this case we’ll overlook your
indiscretion, hmm?”
Dobby hesitated for a moment and then pulled back to sit in his chair, shame
coloring his papery skin. “You is very good to Dobby Professor Dumbledore,
sir,” he murmured, looking down. He looked up at Dumbledore, earnestness
shining in his eyes. “But Dobby is getting better, sir! You and Master Harry
Potter sir is helping Dobby. Dobby is not punishing himself as much. Even if he
thinking wicked things sometimes . . . Dobby is getting better, he is, sir.”
The man smiled sadly at the desperate need shining in his employee’s eyes and
could not help but curse Lucius Malfoy for hurting this poor creature so. In
general, House Elves were naturally subservient, but they were not as . . .
pathetically needful of validation as Dobby. That was a product of his former
Master, not his natural magical inclination. He leaned forward and patted the
nervous creature’s hands gently, smiling proudly. “Yes, Dobby. You have gotten
much better. I am very, very proud of you.”
Dobby beamed joyously and Albus settled back in his chair. “Now what of our
Harry Potter?”
The Elf immediately drooped again. “Dobby is keeping him company while he is
being in bed for the past two days, wrapped up in a great black cloak. Dobby is
cleaning Gryffindor Tower and then making sure Master Harry Potter sir is well.
Dobby is staying as long as he can, but Master Harry Potter sir is knowing that
you is asking Dobby to sit with him.” The tears reappeared but did not fall.
“But Master Harry Potter sir is not talking to anyone but Ms. Spew and his
Wheezy, and when they is talking, his Wheezy is asking Dobby to be getting food
or something to drink, or parchment, so Dobby is not hearing what they is
saying. When Dobby is coming back, they is talking about school.”
The Elf seemed to wilt in his chair as he continued. “Master Harry Potter sir
is asking Dobby many questions about House Elves and sometimes about Professor
Snape, but he is not saying much when Dobby is asking him questions. Sometimes
Dobby is hearing him whisper Professor Snape’s name or cursing, and sometimes .
. . at night, when Dobby is bypassing the silencing charms to check on Master
Harry Potter sir, he is …” the Elf turned an intense shade of scarlet and he
looked at anything but Albus, “calling for Professor Snape to . . . Err . . .
asking him to . . .”
The Elf fidgeted and the Headmaster watched him curiously before understanding
bloomed on the human’s face. A faint blush stained the old man’s cheeks,
clashing with his lavender robes. “Ahh . . . I see . . .” He cleared his throat
to push down his laughter at the Elf’s obvious discomfort. “Continue please.”
The little creature looked absurdly grateful and seemed to leap forward in the
conversation, unable to fully banish his blush. “But Dobby does not know
anything but that. This morning before Ms. Spew and the Wheezy is leaving,
Master Harry Potter sir is getting out of bed though and taking a shower. He is
seeming much better after that, sir, and was smiling and laughing with his
Wheezy. They is not mentioning Professor Snape, but Dobby thinks Ms. Spew and
the Wheezy is knowing something. Now he is being on the pitch, sir, flying.
That is all Dobby is knowing.”
Albus nodded and smiled congenially at the still-blushing Elf and ate another
lemon drop. “Thank you, Dobby.” A chime suddenly sounded, alerting Albus that
someone was approaching the Gargoyle, and his eyes flickered to his clock.
Severus’s hand was pointing to “My Office” and the words “Miserable wreck” were
scrawled in a bruised-looking color up the hand. Harry’s hand was at “On the
Pitch” and the words “Being obstinate” were scrawled on it in blazing red and
gold lettering.
Albus heaved a long-suffering sigh and popped two more lemon drops in his
mouth. “If you will excuse me, Dobby?”
The Elf nodded, not the least bit offended by being so suddenly dismissed, and
vanished with a crack. The chime sounded again and Albus reached out a hand to
stroke Fawkes’s breast as the slightly bedraggled bird came to rest on the back
of his chair. “Please excuse me as well, Lamia, Phineas?”
The two portraits started, each shooting him separate looks of annoyance, but
both remained silent as they vanished from their frames. He was more grateful
than he cared to admit, even to himself. Fawkes cooed one last time and took
off, flying out of the open and leaving a few coppery-crimson feathers in his
wake. It would be his Burning Day soon enough.
“Come in, Severus.”
The door swung open and Albus schooled his features into a stern mask. It took
much less effort than he would have liked. The younger man shuffled in and the
Headmaster almost had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Severus looked .
. . simply awful.
There were dark circles under his haunted, sunken eyes and his still-damp hair
was lifeless. His left hand was twitching almost incessantly and he was staring
at the floor. The typical ebony robes, though clean, looked ill fitting, the
buttons done up all wrong. His pale skin also had a distinctive greenish tint
and there were scratches on both his hands and his throat.
“Oh, Severus . . .”
The other man stopped nervously in front of his desk, shifting about like a
First Year. He looked up, his dark eyes surprisingly bloodshot, and licked his
dry, cracked lips. “I . . .” His voice cracked painfully and his winced,
lowering his tone to a harsh, grating whisper. “I could not find my wand . . .”
And there was simply so much shame in his voice that Albus felt his heart
breaking. But he didn’t dare show it. Instead he reached into a drawer, removed
one of the hangover potions he’d taken from the man’s quarters last night, and
pushed it into his hands.
“Sit,” the old man ordered.
Severus sat and fumbled with the cork with shaking hands before opening the
vial and downing the draught. With only slightly steadier hands the empty vial
was placed on his desk and the man settled back in the chair Dobby had so
recently vacated, now resized for humans.
Albus watched him with uncharacteristically hard eyes for several long moments.
The desk seemed to have become more than a simple bit of furniture; it was a
separation of power and privilege, an expanse that neither man could surmount.
And neither particularly wanted to.
Severus, because he was ashamed and Albus because he really was furious. He had
entrusted Harry to Severus—not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment
was the same. He had entrusted Harry to Severus and the man had completely and
utterly failed him.
Severus was a difficult man, and really ultimately a selfish man. Albus held no
illusions about his Potions Master. But what happened Tuesday was
unconscionable. And worse, Albus had allowed it to occur. Minerva had warned
him. Filius had warned him. Even Hagrid had said that something unpleasant was
brewing. And yet he had done nothing. He had hoped that they would work their
difficulties out themselves. He had hoped that Severus would display a level of
maturity comparable to that which Harry—a sixteen year old—was displaying. He
had hoped that, just once, Severus would not do anything to shoot himself in
the foot.
And he had been bitterly, bitterly disappointed.
So now, he would fix this mess. Before it got any more out of hand.
Severus began to fidget on the other side of the desk. His left hand had
latched onto the arm of his chair with a death grip; it was the only way to
make the spasms that shook his fingers stop. His right knee swayed from side to
side in agitation.
“Severus . . .”
The man started at the sound of his employer’s voice and found himself looking
up at Albus despite himself. He swallowed, but remained silent as the
Headmaster’s eyes bored into him.
“What happened last week?”
For a moment Severus lips twitched silently, as though sounding the words out
to see if they would fit. Finally, he turned away from Albus to stare into the
fire with dead eyes. “I cannot bear to be near that child.”
Albus pursed his lips sternly. “And why ever not?”
“Don’t ask this of me, Albus,” the Potions Master muttered in a hoarse,
agitated tone. His right hand clenched and unclenched convulsively. “Please . .
. Do not ask this of me.”
“Then explain yourself. If you cannot do so, Severus, I will have no choice but
to take harsh action against you. I do not wish to take punitive measures.”
Severus froze like a rabbit and his head whipped around to stare at Albus, dark
eyes wide. “All for Potter?!” he hissed, both angry and stricken.
Albus leaned forward in his seat and his voice fell over the room with the same
abrupt flatness as a crack of thunder. “NOT just for Harry!”
Severus’s eyes narrowed and a spasm jerked through his left hand. “He—” He
choked on the words as Albus rose suddenly.
“You threw a student across the room! Mr. Finnegan went to Pomfrey with bruises
on his neck and side, Severus. Bruises from where you grabbed him and tossed
him into a lab table.” His eyes seemed to burn as he loomed over the desk. “You
are out of control. You snap at the staff, you snarl at the students, all of
the Houses are down near negative points because of your temper. I have tried
to be patient in the hopes that you would overcome your issues with Harry, but
you have continually disappointed me in this regard.”
Severus flinched.
Albus sat down heavily and gave the other man a level look. “No more, Severus.
We do not have time for this inane bickering. I do not have time for it. Nor
does Harry. This must end.”
Severus pulled himself up in his seat stiffly, grappling with both his aching
body and shattered pride. “Oh? And only I am to be held accountable for this?
What of Potter?” He spat the word ‘Potter’ like a curse. “I cannot abide the
child’s presence. I cannot—” He choked off the words, snarling, and wiped a
heavy hand over his mouth to clean away the froth he could feel gathering
there.
I cannot be without him.
“Harry,” the Headmaster said sharply, emphasizing the name heavily, “has not
voiced any complaint against you this year, Severus. None at all. Not even on
Tuesday. The only reason I came to see you was because he ran into me on the
way out of the dungeons. He told me nothing. He was far too upset at the time
anyway. But, in light of the past few weeks, the state of your classroom, and
the fact that magic was rising off the boy in waves, it seemed clear to me that
something had happened. It was only when I found Mr. Finnegan in the Infirmary
on Wednesday that I finally got the whole story. Harry did not even come to his
tea last weekend.”
Severus’s thin lips peeled back in a nasty snarl. “The whole story!” Contempt
and rage coiled thick in his tone. “You know nothing of the whole story—”
“Nor do I wish to,” Albus retorted sharply with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“You are the one who has mucked this up. You will now be the one to fix it. And
you will fix it,” the old man declared, his eyes glittering coldly. “I told you
this before. You will no longer be able to run to me with your problems. Not
for this. You are smarter than this, Severus.”
The Potions Master clenched his fists so tightly that his short nails bit into
the flesh of his palms. “Albus . . .” His voice came out as a painful croak and
he squeezed his eyes shut as though the act could make this all go away. “Albus
. . . Please do not make me do this.”
“You are the one who has created this situation.”
”You started it.”
“It is your responsibility.”
Severus twisted in his chair, practically writhing in the seat, something close
to hysteria shining eerily in his eyes. His voice was absolutely anguished. “I
CANNOT do this!!”
Albus pursed his lips at his student’s obvious plight as his heart broke. “You
will resume your Occlumency lessons with the boy.”
Severus blanched and dropped his head so low it seemed as though he was trying
to curl into himself and emitted a strange, strangled shrieking noise.
“Control yourself.” Albus’s voice could have frozen a lit torch.
Severus snarled viciously and his head snapped up. His eyes glowed like trapped
animal and he forced his body upright with obvious effort. “So that’s just it?
Your Golden Boy snaps his fingers and the whole bloody world just prostrates
itself at his fucking feet, doesn’t it?”
Albus’s eyes narrowed. “Your two weeks suspension holds. You have until next
Tuesday to collect yourself. Wednesday the Occlumency lessons will resume and
you will work with him. It is imperative that he master it. That is all I have
to say, Severus.”
The man gaped at him. He could not seem to believe what he was hearing. The
fists clenched tighter and blood oozed out Severus’s palms onto rumpled black
robes. “Have I not served you well?! Why are you doing this to me?”
Albus sighed heavily and a look of infinite sorrow creased his heavily lined
face. He stood again and walked slowly around the desk to stand by Severus’s
side and gently laid a strong, but frail hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He
squeezed hard until Severus looked up at him and tried desperately to display
all the love, the pride and compassion, he felt for this man in his eyes. “My
dear boy . . . I am doing this for you.”
“Why?”
The sound was so broken, Albus longed to take the man into his arms as though
he were a child and simply try to hold him together. But Severus would never
have tolerated that, so he merely squeezed his shoulder again, hoping what
little strength he still had could pass through that tenuous link. Severus
maintained eye contact and Albus smiled.
“Because I love you,” the old man said sincerely.
Severus turned away. His voice was still rough. “You are a fool.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed amiably. He pulled a lemon drop out of one of his
innumerable pockets and gave it to Severus. “Eat this.”
As the younger man obediently put the Calming Potion-laced treat in his mouth,
Albus returned to the desk and presented him with the Snape Family scroll that
had arrived. Severus took it wordlessly and tucked it away with mechanical
motions.
“Have another lemon drop,” Albus said, gesturing to the tin on his desk, “and
then go downstairs and rest, Severus. Your wand will be back in the morning.”
The man nodded numbly and stood, taking another candy as he went. He swayed
when he was upright and had to grip the chair for balance. The Headmaster could
only watch in silent sorrow as the young man left, looking half bent over with
a curious kind of grief. When he was gone, Albus stared at the closed door
silently as he took a sip of his tea. The hot liquid spread through him
rapidly, but it did little to quell the churning in his stomach and self-
loathing tearing at his heart.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Harry felt his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose as he stared at the
ground. His feet swung idly a good seventy feet above the pitch as he pushed
the spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose. The air was heavy with the
tang of unshed rain and the earth seemed to throb and pulse below him. He could
feel it inside him.
It was a Saturday, a Hogsmead weekend, and he was the only Gryffindor above
third year left in the castle. Though the Headmaster had happily returned his
broom with a flourish at the start of the Quidditch season, Harry was still
barred from Hogsmead; it was too much of a security risk. This year, however,
Harry did not rail against the ban—in fact, he rather welcomed it.
August had been spent concocting stupid fantasies of him and Snape spending
these free hours ensconced in some dungeon room somewhere doing rather improper
things to one another. After their last confrontation, though, Harry did not
see that happening any time soon—if ever. He rubbed his cheek absently and
wondered if Seamus was alright. Now, it seemed, he would be spending most of
his time on the pitch. Anyway, after spending three days bed-ridden and
wallowing in misery, the cool air and exercise felt good. He was more than a
little bit tempted to go poke around the Chamber of Secrets, but he had the
sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore had put some sort of tracking spell on him.
Besides, though Voldemort had been surprisingly silent in regards to their bond
so far this term, Harry didn’t exactly want to invite trouble.
He had strange dreams some nights. He saw himself walking down to the Chamber
and kneeling by a puddle on the floor. He would stare into it and his
reflection would morph into a giant basilisk that would then leap through the
puddle and snap at him. He always woke up then, though, so he never got to see
what happened next. Memories of the vision that had lead to Sirius’s death kept
him from wandering down to the hidden chamber, but sometimes when it was very
quiet and he was very lonely, temptation was hard to resist.
Snape made him want to do that. Run away. Escape. Throw caution to the wind and
simply do what he felt like. The man had a gift for inspiring Harry to do
immensely stupid things. Before Snape had just ignored him, as though he wasn’t
even worth the Potions Master’s time. Now though, the man was more hateful than
ever before. Harry didn’t know which was more mortifying—the fact that he had
to sit through Potions with the slimy bastard every week and be insulted
steadily for three hours, or the fact that, despite Harry’s growing desire to
hex the man, Snape still aroused him. Even after the debacle of Tuesday’s
lesson—even though the memory of what Snape had said to him burned him up and
made his eyes sting suspiciously, he was still absolutely fixated.
He was beginning to worry that what had started out as mere fancy on his part
was turning into an obsession. He couldn’t go through a single day without
watching the man—staring, wanting . . . so much . . . And he couldn’t go a
single night without dreams of those eyes on him, those hands holding him down,
that voice whispering obscenities in his ear while talented fingers tugged open
his pants and slid into the slit in his Y-fronts and wrapped tight around his—
Harry yelped suddenly as he found himself slipping off his broom. His hands
latched tightly around the broomstick’s handle and he abruptly dropped about
fifteen feet before he got a hold on himself. He blushed crimson and looked
around furtively; worried that someone had seen him. Harry Potter, Seeker
Extraordinaire . . . falling off of his broom whilst having wet dreams about a
teacher who wouldn’t touch him with a twenty meter stick . . . His cheeks
burned so much that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Smooth, Potter,” he muttered to himself as he rose a bit higher. He started a
slow lap around the pitch in an effort to rid his mind of naughty thoughts.
Really, between Voldemort, the weird puddle in the Chamber, and Snape, he was
amazed that he ever got any sleep at all. And poor Dobby, who—thanks to
Hermione’s ongoing SPEW Crusade—was still the only Elf who’d clean Gryffindor
Tower, blushed every single time he saw him. This, naturally, made Harry blush.
The poor little Elf’s face had been glowing like a light bulb for the past four
days now and Harry just couldn’t bring himself to meet those enormous, adoring
eyes anymore. It was getting to the point where he’d actually considered asking
Hermione to help him find a spell or potion that would prevent him from
ejaculating in his sleep. The only one he’d managed to find was an unpleasant
draught that had a fifty percent chance of turning the drinker into a
hermaphrodite. A fully functioning hermaphrodite. Harry wasn’t that
desperate—yet.
Not to mention the fact that he felt no need to stoke Ron and Hermione’s
growing curiosity. He’d pumped them endlessly for information about Snape over
the past few days, but neither of them had anything to report. However, they
were beginning to ask him questions that made him rather uncomfortable in
regards to their Potions Master. It was their endless questioning that finally
prompted him to arise and go out. Had he spent another day in bed sulking, he
had no doubt that the two of them would force feed him Veritaserum to get the
information they wanted. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were starting to
suspect something. How, he didn’t know—he had been careful—but if they went
nosing about in this he didn’t know what would happen. Snape had Obliviated
Malfoy, his supposed pet student. What would he do to Ron and Hermione, whom he
openly disliked?
He couldn’t let his friends do anything to hurt Snape, no matter how much of a
heartless, spiteful bastard the man was. But he most certainly would not allow
Snape to hurt his friends, either. The position made him painfully
uncomfortable and he didn’t dare let Ron and Hermione know just how much Snape
had hurt him. He’d known that this would be difficult, but what would he do if
it pitted him against his friends?
Harry sighed heavily and loosened his grip a bit and swung upside down,
reveling in the strange rush of hot and cold that flashed through his body as
he flew suspended from the broom, barely keeping his grip. Blood rushed to his
head.
These thought weren’t helping anything.
As he made a lap upside down, he found himself thinking of Sirius. It wasn’t
often that he thought about his godfather intentionally because those thoughts
led inevitably to the memory of That Night and his culpability in Sirius’s
death. Harry was unable to separate the good memories from the bad memories
most of the time. But today he was so uncharacteristically relaxed—so tired,
tired of himself, tired of sleeping, tired of dreaming, and tired of Snape—that
the memories seemed to be more of a balm than an irritant. Oddly enough, the
one that came back to him most often was when Snape had come to headquarters to
talk about Occlumency and he and Sirius had gotten into that fight. Harry
remembered standing between the two, one hand pressed against each of their
chests in a futile effort to keep them apart, while waves of power inundated
him, rolling off the two men like thunder before a storm. They’d both been
trembling, they were so mad.
He remembered the uneasiness he’d sometimes feel around Sirius—the trepidation.
But there was also love. Love and admiration and respect and a desperate need
to know this man. He didn’t know how to describe it. He’d wanted Sirius to
teach him, to tell him everything, to be there. He’d wanted Sirius to know
everything about him, because Sirius would have listened, he was sure. Sirius
would have let him say his piece and then done everything he could to comfort
him. Even if it wasn’t the right thing, he would have tried.
Sirius . . .
He really was the only family Harry had had. They had only known one another
for a year, maybe two and somehow he’d become so much to Harry.
And now he was dead.
The word was a heavy weight inside him: dead. It seemed like it should sound so
much more significant than it did. It should have been a strong, long word, not
something so small and tame sounding. Dead. There was something almost
disarming about it.
The Gryffindor swung himself upright on his broom, dipping a bit in altitude to
help him pull up. He lay down flat against the broom handle to cut down the
wind sheer and began to speed up, pulling back with his thighs so that he’d
gradually gain altitude. The wind shrieked in his ears as he began to go faster
and faster.
Harry firmly believed that people got to see each other again when they died.
He didn’t know about heaven or hell, but there was a place were people got to
see each other afterwards. There had to be. There had to be a place where
Sirius and his parents and Cedric, Bertha Jenkins, that old man, and all the
others who’d died were getting all the happiness they’d missed in life. They
had all deserved so much more . . .
He was going to go there when he died, the boy had decided. He was going to get
to see them all when it was all over and Voldemort was really and truly dead.
The key was somewhere in the library and he was going to find it and kill
Voldemort and then . . .
And then . . .
What?
Harry peaked in the air, perfectly frozen in space and hesitating for one
marvelous moment as he opened his eyes to an endlessly blue sky.
What then?
He leaned forward, resting his chest against the broomstick and tipping the
broom forward. The moment was over, perfection destroyed, and he plummeted to
the ground, clinging halfheartedly to the broom handle. This was not
flying—this was falling. One hundred percent, nose to the ground, no holding
back falling. He felt absolutely alive. The wind screamed in his ears and the
earth, a tiny scrap of green beneath him ringed by a minuscule stadium, rose to
meet him.
What then?
He could feel his glasses sliding up his forehead.
Then, he supposed, he’d die. After all, everything dies.
The breath left his body in a sudden gasp as he forced himself to pull up and
his broom handle bent and buckled beneath him with the strain. The boy leveled
off with barely a moment to spare. In nearly the same motion he leaned hard to
the side, forcing his broom to move with him and turning his forward momentum
into a smooth circle, so that he wouldn’t crash into a wall. He was still going
much too fast to stop, so he flew on momentum. Controlled momentum—he could do
that. Sometimes it felt like that was all he was doing.
“Then you’d have done us all a greater service if you had died.”
One lap. Momentum.
Dying really couldn’t be such an awful thing, could it? Snape was right—it
probably would have been better if he’d died. Died and never ever had to meet
Severus Snape, or watch everyone he loved be taken from him one by one. So much
better. But it can’t be too terrible to die, right? Because then it would all
be over. It should have been a comfort, really; no matter what happened, he’d
die and it would be over.
But he didn’t want to die.
And it was all so terribly unfair.
Two laps. He was starting to slow down now. Again. He could feel a familiar
lump rising in his throat.
“Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of value to the
world instead of sucking the life out of those around her.”
He would not start this again! He wouldn’t. Not after he promised Ron and
Hermione he’d be okay. And they worried about him so much, and he wasn’t nearly
as good a friend to them as they were to him.
“. . . Sucking the life out of those around her.”
Harry felt himself slow to a stop and squeezed his eyes closed, clenching his
jaw tight.
The bastard . . . He hated him. He absolutely hated him.
And he didn’t really hate him at all.
It was so unfair.
“Who died, Potter?”
Harry started at the familiar shout and pulled his broom around sharply to face
the Hufflepuff stands. Trotting out towards the pitch in front of the black and
yellow and banners was Draco Malfoy. The ice blond Slytherin was dressed in
plain, almost dull, black robes that whispered over the top of the
painstakingly maintained grass as he approached. Harry’s eyes narrowed behind
his thick glasses as he lowered himself down to earth. The battered tips of his
worn out shoes grazed the ground. Malfoy stopped a good thirty feet away and
watched the other boy with thinly veiled wariness. Harry settled back on his
broom, stretching out his legs.
Malfoy broke eye contact first. His silvery grey eyes watched Harry’s feet
swing just above the green. “We need to talk.”
A muscle tensed in Harry’s jaw as he readjusted his grip on the Firebolt.
“Really? Well, that’s going to be rather difficult because I have nothing to
say to you and it takes two to have a conversation.” He pushed up off the
ground with his toes, ready to head back to the locker room. The pitch suddenly
seemed too small. Or maybe he somehow felt too large.
Malfoy made a strange noise in his throat. “Then just listen.”
Harry closed his eyes as he moved upwards. No, it was the company that was all
wrong, not him or the pitch.
“Harry!”
The Gryffindor paused, struck painfully by something in the other boy’s voice.
Maybe it was the plea he thought he heard there. But that couldn’t be right—a
Malfoy never pleaded for anything. Despite himself, the brunet turned to frown
back at his classmate.
Sensing an opening, Draco quickly strode across the space between, trying
desperately to organize his thoughts. He took a deep breath and was hard
pressed to suppress a scowl when he realized he’d be forced to look up at
Potter for this conversation. “Just listen to me, okay?”
Potter tilted his head to the side quizzically. “Why? And shouldn’t you be at
Hogsmead with the rest of your entourage?”
The blond forced himself to maintain eye contact with the brunet. “I don’t seem
to have one anymore. How’s yours?”
“I never had one,” Harry growled in response. “I have friends. You should try
it some time.”
Draco pressed his lips into a pained line. “Show me.”
The broom dipped in midair. “What?”
“Show me,” the Slytherin repeated.
Harry pulled up on the broom a bit as he stared down at Malfoy. “What are you
playing at, Malfoy?”
“I need your help,” the blond responded levelly. “I’m offering you an alliance,
Potter. You’d be wise to accept it.”
“And why should I trust you?” The smaller Seeker lowered his broom to the
ground until he was just a little bit above Draco’s eye level. “When have you
ever given me a reason to trust you, Malfoy? And when have I ever given you a
reason to trust me?”
“The political climate has changed.” He pursed his lips again in frustration
and seized hold of the broom so Potter couldn’t just fly off when it suited
him. The other boy balked, looking affronted, but Draco overran him before he
could protest. “My father is mad, Potter. And my mother is not equipped to lead
the family.” His grip on the broom tightened in an effort to keep the tremor
out of his voice. “I am not asking for your friendship. I’m not even asking for
your trust me.” His knuckles were white and his voice dropped to a strained
whisper. “But I am asking you to help me.”
Potter settled back on his broom, biting his lower lip, Avada Kedavra green
eyes dark with consideration.
Draco swallowed heavily. “I will not watch idly as my family is swallowed by
the Dark Lord.”
Harry’s broom rose a bit and the blond pulled it back down, still maintaining
eye contact. The Gryffindor pulled up again. “His name is Voldemort.”
The Malfoy heir opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. For a
moment Harry stared at him with burning emerald eyes and jerked the broom
handle out of his hand. The blond tried again, but he simply could not bring
himself to say the name.
Harry stared down at the boy and was suddenly struck by the helplessness he saw
in those gray eyes. Anger, frustration, and . . . helplessness. Perhaps he
would have been more sympathetic in September, but September was long past and
now all he could think was the Malfoy had worn the exact same expression when
he’d burst into the Lab that night.
When he’d ruined everything.
Everything.
The eternal ball of anger, so carefully coiled and bound in his stomach,
lurched and writhed. Anger. And blame. Because it really was Malfoy’s fault.
MALFOY. Severus was listening to him before that. Severus was holding him.
Touching him. Begging him to listen to so-called reason, but those hands were
on him, sliding and touching and promising and Malfoy had ruined it all.
Everything.
He pulled up sharply and glared down at this hate-filled little rodent who
poisoned everything he touched—everything—and it took all his control not to
hex him to bits. The whole damn Malfoy clan could tumble into the ocean for all
he cared. Then at least, he’d be free of them.
Control and memory. Memory and control.
And he would not lose his temper. Not for a Malfoy.
The look on his face must have been fearsome because Malfoy recoiled as though
he’d been bitten. Harry sneered in contempt at the act and rose so that he was
staring down his nose at the blond.
“I need your help!” the Slytherin cried with obvious anguish.
Harry could feel nothing for the boy’s plight. “You want my help, Malfoy? Then
take my advice.” He pulled up to head back to the locker room, pausing only to
glance at the boy he left behind. “Go to hell!”
He turned back and lay flat against the broom, desperate to put distance
between himself and Malfoy, and told himself that he was not running away. If
Malfoy said anything, he didn’t hear him. He didn’t want to.
He didn’t want to think of Malfoy. He didn’t want to think of Severus. He
didn’t want to think of Sirius. He didn’t want to think at all. He just wanted
. . . He wanted . . . to be safe. Just for a little while. Just for a moment.
. . . Which was probably why, an hour and a shower later, he found himself with
one hand poised to knock on a heavy maple door and shifting nervously from foot
to foot.
“Come in, child.”
Harry hesitated an instant—how did the man do that?—before cautiously opening
the door. He shyly stuck his head around the corner and peered in. “Sir?” His
glasses caught the glare of the fire, temporarily blinding him. He shuffled
into the office and closed the door behind him. “Sir?”
Albus looked up from the paperwork spread before him, concern shining in his
eyes. He put down his quill and beckoned the boy into the office. “Is
everything alright, my dear boy? Do you need something? Has Professor Snape
done anything?”
For once being called ‘boy’ did not irritate Harry. Instead it made him feel .
. . calmer. He came into the room slowly, looking a bit sheepish. He looked
away from the Headmaster’s eyes and to the fire. “You, um . . .” He cleared his
throat and hated himself for sounding so stupid. “You said that your door was
always open. Even if I just needed a place to be . . .” He trailed off and
suddenly wished he hadn’t come here at all.
Albus smiled at the boy’s awkwardness. “Harry . . . You are always welcome
here.” He made to push his work aside. “Did you want to talk or—”
“No, no!” the boy interrupted with a blush and shake of his head. “I just . . .
May I just sit by the fire and read?”
Albus beamed. “Have you a book?”
Harry blushed again, spreading his empty hands in embarrassment, and shook his
head. “Um . . . Should—”
The Headmaster waved his wand and a book appeared on his desk with an odd
suction noise. It was leather-bound, heavy and black with golden letters
embossed on the cover that read ‘Wizarding Tales for Every Child.’ Harry shot
him a quizzical look at the title.
“It’s one of my favorites,” the old man explained, still looking absolutely
thrilled with Harry’s presence.
The teen accepted the enormous book with a crooked smile and retreated to the
chair he usually sat in for tea. He opened the book to the first story, “The
Midwife and the Scarab,” and curled up in the heavy seat, occasionally peaking
over the top of the pages at the Headmaster as the old man shuffled his papers
about. The fourth or fifth time he’d done this, he found himself looking into a
shining pair of sapphire eyes. They stared at one another for a moment before
Harry shifted in his seat.
“Was he terribly cross with me?” he asked after a minute.
The Headmaster knew it was pointless to feign ignorance and his smile became a
bit sadder. “No. Not at you. Himself maybe. And me. But not at you.”
Harry nodded and turned back to the book. A slight wrinkle appeared in his
brow. “This doesn’t mean that we’re square, you know. I haven’t forgiven you
yet.”
Although Harry couldn’t see it, Albus smiled again. “I know, child.” But it’s a
start.
They said nothing else to one another for the remainder of the afternoon and
the only sounds to be heard in the office was the rustle of paper and the
absent, even scratching of a quill.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Voldemort sat on the dais and frowned slightly at the women in front of him.
Bellatrix was seated his feet in Nagini’s usual post, enraptured by a game of
Cat’s Cradle as she hummed brokenly to herself. Kneeling gracefully in the
audience area was Narcissa Malfoy. Her regal carriage irritated him to no end.
It made the Dark Lord even more acutely aware of his own shabby surroundings: a
rotted, empty ballroom with a busted easy chair as a throne and a humming
madwoman as his court and concubine.
He sneered, but the expression was directed at himself. And now this worthless
nothing of a woman dared to come into his presence unmasked? Regardless of
whether or not she was a Death Eater, she should have known better. To love
something is to truly fear it. This women did not fear him. He would remember
that and kill her when the time came. Slowly. A fitting task for his ambitious
Dragon, perhaps. Nothing cemented the Dark Mark like the selfish spilling of
blood. Even that treacherous Severus had been initiated with blood.
The reminder of Severus’s betrayal made the reptilian man taste bile. He felt
flush with a sudden and intense hatred for everyone and everything. It took
more control than he liked to admit not summon Severus here and kill him just
as a simple means of catharsis.
Soon . . .
Yes. Soon. Soon Potter would either be bound or he would be dead. Soon Severus
would be brought to heel. Soon everything would be his—his—as it could have
been before. As it should have been before. Oh, he’d spout the pureblood
rhetoric for as long as necessary, but he knew better than anyone that when it
came down to the wire, it was he—poor, despised, filthy Tom Riddle the half-
blood orphan—who would rule this world. This world and all others. Soon.
But for now, he would have to be patient.
Even though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and squeeze this frigid
blue-blooded bitch’s neck until her eyes bulged and her tongue protruded and
her flesh popped beneath his fingers like rotten fruit and blood stained those
perfect, pristine sapphire robes and she died knowing that he was her Master .
. .
Voldemort closed his red eyes and sighed, ignoring the slight tremor in his
hands as he did so.
Soon.
He opened his eyes. Soon he would make this queenly woman a Death Eater whore
and violate her in every way conceivable until she went mad from begging both
for mercy and for more.
But not today.
He tilted his hairless head to the side and allowed a hint of displeasure to
show. “He is . . . illllllll?” He drew the last word out in a sibilant hiss and
was pleased to see a minuscule shiver run through the Lady Malfoy.
She dipped her head and the weak, indelicate torch light shone brightly off of
the jeweled hair piece that held back her magnificent locks. “Yes, My Lord. I
am afraid that my husband has taken ill once more and will not be able to
attend you for several weeks.”
He sneered at her perfectly brushed hair and absently reached out his free hand
to pet Bellatrix. Narcissa’s eyes locked on the other woman at his feet and her
expressionless face cracked for a moment in contempt. Voldemort tightened his
grip on Bellatrix’s hair in anger.
How dare this weak, willful girl look with distain on what was his! Bellatrix
looked up at him, adoring madness flashing in her velvety eyes.
“Patterns, Master,” she cooed sweetly, holding up her string to show him what
she’d made. She giggled, a curiously shattered sound. “So much to see . . . I
see the itty-bitty Potter. I see a treacherous black snake. I see the prey
falling. I see the pretty painted woman—” here her midnight blue eyes flashed
to Narcissa, alight with pure, unadulterated hatred, and her saccharine voice
changing to rough, animalistic snarl, “—burning!”
Voldemort watched his servant—his poor, mad, faithful Bellatrix—with
expressionless eyes. All he could see in the weave she’d made was the start of
a great knot.
He looked back at Narcissa—Bellatrix could be punished for speaking out of turn
once Malfoy’s woman had left. “I ssssee,” he hissed quietly to the other witch.
He seemed to think for a moment before shaking his head. “You, I assssume, have
taken on the duties as the Head of Houssse?”
She dipped her head again in acknowledgement. “Yes, my Lord.”
The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. This was not acceptable. “Then you sshall take
over all of his duties as the Head of Housssse.” He shifted and Bellatrix
jerked violently at the Cat’s Cradle she was trying to weave, whispering to
herself and rocking back and forth ever so slightly.
Voldemort hissed irritably at her before turning back to the Malfoy matriarch.
“You are to tell Draco that the Mirror is set to arrive at Hogwartssss thiss
week by way of the Ssssslytherin dungeons. He is not to interfere. There are
otherss in Hogwartssss who can do my bidding far better than the Malfoy family
hass been doing of late.” He paused and looked at her in consideration. “Should
I suspect that there was any interferenccce . . .” he drew the ‘c’ out slowly,
“I would be most disappointed, Lady Narcccissa.” The title made his stomach
roil and he looked away in disgust. “I will summon you when I have need of
you.”
Narcissa seemed to pale a bit at these words and looked up sharply in protest.
“My Lord—” The words died on her lips as he slowly turned back to face her
again. She swallowed visibly, the shallow arc of her throat sliding back and
forth with the motion.
Voldemort leaned forward as though taking a closer look at her. His pupils
seemed to flare open and he inhaled deeply, as though he could smell her. She
shuddered, a delicate motion that made her dress whisper.
“You are a very beautiful woman, Lady Malfoy,” the wizard murmured after a
moment. His hand buried itself in Bellatrix’s tangled ebony hair again. “But
true beauty can only be appreciated in its destruction, wouldn’t you concur?
Does not even the loveliest rosse in its prime ssseem all the more beautiful
when compared to its inevitable decay?”
She stared up at him, cold and pale and expressionless, and he smiled. Soon. He
dismissed her with a wave of his hand and watched as she executed a perfect
curtsey and slowly backed out of his presence. Bellatrix giggled psychotically
and pulled the strings wrapped between her fingers taut again; forming a
pattern only she could see. Narcissa glided regally to the door.
Voldemort raised his wand when her marble hand touched the tarnished door
handle. “Oh . . . And Lady Narcissa?”
She turned slowly and even from the distance between them he could see the
steel in her gaze. Her perfect flowerbud lips parted and Voldemort pointed his
wand at her with a smile. “Crucio.”
Her screams sounded like the rush of blood in his veins.
At his feet, Bellatrix continued humming and playing her game, unaware of
anything but the knot she had created.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Severus sat at his desk in the midst of his devastated quarters and stared
blankly down at the scroll in his hand. He had read the letter several times,
but the words didn’t seem to sink in. It was not as though this was unexpected
. . . he simply hadn’t expected it now of all times . . .
But perhaps it was for the best. It would give him time, at least. Time away
from the boy’s hurt-filled green eyes. Time away from Albus’s disappointment.
Time away from Draco and Lucius’s impossible demands . . . Time.
November 1st, 1996
Severus,
I will not mince words. You are, always have been, and always will be a
failure. If you hadn’t ruined your wretched mother’s womb, I would have drowned
you an hour after your birth. You should consider it your supreme triumph that
you will outlive me—your only victory in this life is that you are the only
heir I have produced, despite my efforts to the contrary.
However, there is nothing that can be done for the situation now. It has come
to my attention that I am dying. If you are so inclined, returned to Snape
Manor on Tuesday November 5th, 1996 at exactly 12:30 to discuss your
inheritance. The wards barring your return will be lifted at that time and at
that time only. If you are late or do not attend, then you will be
disinherited. Do try to make time in your busy schedule, lest I be forced set
the wards to burn the Manor to the ground upon my death.
~ Aigris Désunis Snape
He rolled the scroll closed and pressed the ends shut so that the shattered
Snape family seal looked whole again. The fifth . . . That was in three days.
Albus had given Severus three more days before he had to face Potter again and
Tuesday was the Headmaster’s weekly tea session with the boy . . . And he
hadn’t seen his ancestral home in over 20 years now . . .
Yes. Perhaps some time away was just the thing. Even if it was only to Snape
Manor. His hands clenched around the scroll. What was that Muggle saying again?
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
So be it then.
Severus pushed himself to his feet and staggered slightly to his shower once
more. His wand still had not reappeared. He turned the spray all the way to hot
and stepped in the shower fully clothed, still holding the scroll. It was
actually rather interesting to watch the water bounce off the Impervious Charm
on the parchment.
“I didn’t ask to survive, you know.”
What had he been thinking?
What . . .
Dear Professor Snape,
I miss you.
H.P.
Severus closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his forehead against the
tiles and closed his eyes wearily.
Yes.
It was long past time for him to return home.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** Six I: The Body Swayed to Music *****

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                               ~ Chapter Six I ~
                           The Body Swayed to Music
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
             “Behold, ye trust in lying words, that cannot profit.
Will ye steal, murder, and commit adultery, and swear falsely, and burn incense
                                  unto Ba`al,
                  and walk after other gods whom ye know not;
  And come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and
                                     say,
                We are delivered to do all these abominations?
  Is this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your
                                     eyes?
                 Behold, even I have seen it, saith the LORD.
  But go ye now unto my place which was in Shiloh, where I set my name at the
                                    first,
       and see what I did to it for the wickedness of my people Israel.
And now, because ye have done all these works, saith the LORD, and I spake unto
                      you, rising up early and speaking,
           but ye heard not; and I called you, but ye answered not;
  Therefore will I do unto this house, which is called by my name, wherein ye
                                    trust,
 and unto the place which I gave to you and to your fathers, as I have done to
                                    Shiloh.
And I will cast you out of my sight, as I have cast out all your brethren, even
                          the whole seed of Ephraim.
  Therefore pray not thou for this people, neither lift up cry nor prayer for
                    them, neither make intercession to me:
                          for I will not hear thee.”
                              - Jeremiah 7: 8-17
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“Will you talk to me now, Harry?”
The boy looked up at the old man, a shuttered expression on his face. After a
moment, his eyes darted away again and he laid his head down on his arms on the
edge of the Headmaster’s desk. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Because you are important to me. Allow me to help you.”
A muscle in the Gryffindor’s jaw twitched, but he remained silent.
It was Tuesday. While October had gone out with bang, it seemed that November
was determined to start with a whimper and, though Harry was no longer hiding
in his bed, he still was not quite ready to join the rest of Hogwarts. This was
partially because, despite the fact that the boy had been searching for him
ever since Sunday, there had been no sign of Snape. Last night he’d even crept
down to the dungeons—still without his invisibility cloak—but he stopped at the
top landing and simply stared down the dark hallway. He didn’t want to admit
it, but he was scared. He was scared that Snape never wanted to see him again.
He was afraid . . . that maybe it wasn’t Malfoy. Maybe Snape really did hate
him. So Harry had gone back to Gryffindor Tower with a suspicious lump in his
throat and curled up in bed with Snape’s cloak.
This wasn’t healthy. He knew that this couldn’t possibly be healthy just as
well as he knew that there was no possible way he could still smell Snape on
the man’s cloak after two years. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt
awfully empty without his Professor and—to him at least—the cloak still smelled
like blood and tea and roses and the thousand other things that were pure
Snape.
This wasn’t just a crush anymore; it had hit full blown obsession and Harry was
scared and had no one to talk to. Ron and Hermione would freak. Dumbledore
would be forced to sack Snape before he even got a full sentence out of his
mouth. Remus might very well eat the man next moon or something. And Harry had
no one else he could talk to—no one else he could trust. The thought was
disheartening and the boy went from simply being quiet and studious to being
depressed. What was worse, though, was that everyone just seemed to just let
him go. They knew something was wrong—they had to see that something was wrong.
So why then didn’t anyone want to help him?
He buried himself deeper into his arms and listened to the fire crackle. His
head ached horribly. He hated Occlumency. It made him feel as though someone
was hammering a knife through his scar. Slowly. And from the inside. The fire
popped again and he flinched at the sound. It hurt. Dumbledore would probably
end this session soon, though. At least Harry hoped so. He couldn’t take much
more of this tonight.
Albus sighed at his student’s lack of response and sat down in his chair. “Your
shields have gotten a good deal better than they were before.”
“Voldemort hasn’t tried anything since the end of last year. It doesn’t really
mean anything if I can’t keep him out, does it?” He shifted unconsciously so
that his scar was hidden. “And we won’t know until he tries something.”
“True,” the old man concurred as he stroked his beard idly, “but you have shown
tremendous progress.”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we stop for tonight?”
“The lessons still cause you pain?” Harry barely repressed a flinch when he
felt a gnarled hand rest on his hair. “Even though you’ve been practicing and
clearing your mind?”
The boy nodded without changing his position. “It feels like . . . like
something’s being scrambled about in my head and then trying to push out of my
scar.”
The hand on his head moved slightly, gently brushing back his hair, and Harry
felt his headache begin to recede under the light touches. “Pushing out, or
pushing in?”
“Out.”
The Headmaster withdrew his hand after a moment and Harry sat up, blinking his
eyes against the sudden brightness of the fire and candle light. A tin of lemon
drops was held out and he took one without thinking. “Do you think it’s
Voldemort, sir?”
“No . . .” the Headmaster eyed him in consideration as Harry sucked on the
candy. “Harry, what was the first involuntary magic you did?”
The boy swallowed the treat and his brow wrinkled in consideration. “Um . . . I
once grew my hair out again after my aunt gave me a bad haircut. And I also
once apparated to the top of my elementary school when my cousin was chasing
me.”
Dumbledore’s lips thinned at the mention of such treatment, but he said nothing
about it. Instead he asked, “Did you ever have odd dreams as a child, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed and his frown deepened. “Dreams are just dreams, sir.
Aren’t they all odd?”
Blue eyes twinkled. “Sometimes. But sometimes they mean more.” Harry opened his
mouth, but Dumbledore waved the question away and sat up a bit straighter in
his chair. “You should not still be getting headaches by this stage of your
training though, child. When you first started, that was to be expected—your
mind was being forced to do something new, something that it was not designed
to do,” he explained as the boy took another lemon drop. “Now, however, you
should have become more acquainted with shielding. You have built and developed
natural shields. The defenses that you have now, though good, are only your
mind’s reaction to the intrusion of another. A natural defense mechanism. Your
shields are totally instinctive. What we need to do now is work on developing
conscious, controllable shields. This pain that you seem to be experiencing is
preventing you from doing that.”
The teen jerked off his glasses with an angry motion and slumped in his seat,
allowing his head to thump against the wood carvings along the top of the back.
He made a hissing noise in frustration and scrubbed his face with his hands.
“But I’m practicing; I promise I am! I clear my mind before bed every night. I
study every day . . . I’m doing my very best.”
“I know you are,” the Headmaster assured him in a warm voice, a slightly pained
expression on his face at his protégé’s distress. “I know. What I’m trying to
say is that this block that you have may not be your fault. This could very
well be something out of both of our control.”
Harry blinked blearily at the man. “What do you mean?” He put his glasses back
on and his gaze hardened. “Or is this one of those things you won’t tell me?”
Dumbledore pursed his lips again and was silent for a moment. The he settled
tiredly back in his chair and reached out to stroke Fawkes. He watched the
phoenix stretch on his perch as he spoke. “Honestly, I am not certain, but I am
beginning to suspect that your own magical skills may be blocking your
abilities to shield, Harry. You will be a very powerful wizard when you grow
older and it is not unusual for particularly powerful wizard to have their
abilities manifest in various forms, particularly if their magical inclination
was somehow stifled when they were young. All that power has to go somewhere,
after all. This may not be something that either I or Professor Snape can teach
you to get around.”
Harry watched the old man in silence for a moment, absorbing what he’d just
heard. “Do you have a . . . another form, sir?”
The hand petting Fawkes stopped and the man seemed to wilt a bit. When he
turned to look back at his charge, his eyes were devoid of any twinkle. He
folded his hands in front of him thoughtfully.
Harry watched curiously as the man seemed to gather himself.
“You were right,” the Headmaster began with a heavy sigh, “when you said that I
do not tell you things. But I meant what I said before: I want to protect you,
Harry. Sometimes, though, I also wish to protect myself.” He sighed once more,
a heavy, pained sound. “I am trusting you with something, my boy, and you must
understand that what I say now cannot leave this office. You cannot even tell
Ron and Hermione. Do you promise me?”
The boy looked slightly surprised at the statement. He blinked and then
frowned. “Maybe . . . maybe you shouldn’t tell me, then . . . If Voldemort—”
“Tom knows,” Dumbledore said sadly.
Harry blinked for a moment, taken off guard by the gentle interruption. Then he
looked into his mentor’s eyes. “I promise, then.”
Albus nodded and settled back in his chair. “I am an empath, Harry. Do you know
what that means?” When the boy shook his head ‘no,’ the man smiled slightly at
the obvious curiosity shining in his student’s eyes. “An empath is a person who
can sense other people’s emotions. They can also influence them to a certain
extent. Most empaths, however, have very, very strong shields, else we would
not even be able to function with all the emotions of flying about all the
time. I can only influence someone’s emotions when I’m in physical contact with
them, and even then only to a limited extent and for very short time period.”
Harry recoiled. “When you touched me just now, did you—”
The light in Albus’s eyes further dimmed. “No. No, I did not, Harry. And I have
never used my abilities on you. Ever. Not even when you were a child. However
useful they might be to me, I am loathe to use my abilities on others and have
been for several years. Ever since Tom graduated from Hogwarts, actually.”
The Gryffindor frowned slightly, obviously not understanding what the one had
to do with the other.
Albus steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the arm rests of
his chair and a distant look clouding his normally clear eyes. “The day Tom
Riddle graduated, he came to see me. He wanted to know why I had given him low
marks in Transfiguration. He was angry, in a rage such as I had never seen
before. Tom was always so terribly calm, so cool and collected all the time . .
. it was alarming. I was concerned. I knew that there had to be more affecting
him than his grade and Tom and I had never really gotten along. Tom had a . . .
cruel streak in him that I did not like—a malice that I could feel no matter
how strong my shields—and he knew that I was aware of his darker nature. But he
came to me that day and I thought . . . I was arrogant enough to think that I
could help him. So I reached out and grabbed his arm to get a clear read on
him.”
His eyes closed in remembered pain. “There was so much rage . . . so much hate
inside him . . . I thought that it would tear us both in two. His mind was a
maelstrom. I didn’t understand how anyone could live like that. I reached into
his mind and twisted, trying to drain some of that hate away. I thought that
there would be some other emotion to fill the void. I only wanted to afford him
a moment’s peace, truly. But there was nothing. When I drained away his anger
and hate, it created a void in his mind. He lashed out at me. The blast
destroyed the entire north wall of the Transfiguration classroom and landed me
in the Hospital Wing for four days.”
He stopped, seemingly lost in thought. Age and guilt bent his shoulders and it
seemed for a strange moment as thought the man was going to simply crumble in
on himself. Then he sighed again and opened his eyes. “The next time I saw Tom
Riddle was ten years later as he stood outside a muggle-born’s burning house,
firing the Dark Mark into the sky.” He turned to stare hard at Harry. “When I
first saw you sitting in the Great Hall five years ago, it seemed as though I’d
stepped back in time. I did not see James Potter when I looked at you, Harry. I
saw Tom Riddle. And I saw the same pain bowing your shoulders that had bowed
his. But there was so much light inside you, too . . .”
He leaned forward and smiled at Harry sadly. “I suppose I saw in you my second
chance. But I also saw how deeply unhappy I had made the child of James and
Lily Potter, two vibrant people whom I loved dearly. I vowed then that, though
I didn’t dare remove you from your Aunt’s protection, I would at least do
everything I could to make your time at Hogwarts enjoyable. Part of that was
also respecting your privacy as much as possible. I believe I have imposed
quite enough on your life with intruding on your mind unnecessarily. I only
wanted to make sure that you were safe and happy. If I had known then what I
know now, perhaps I would have done things quite differently, but I cannot
change what has been done. And for that I am truly sorry, my dear boy.” His
eyes closed. “Truly.”
Harry closed his own eyes and could feel his nails digging uncomfortably into
his palms. He looked down at his fists blankly. He forced his fingers open.
“And Voldemort?”
The Headmaster looked confused at the question and Harry looked directly into
his eyes. “What’s his ‘manifestation?’”
“He is a natural Legilimens. As is Severus.”
At the mention of Severus’s name, Harry squirmed uncomfortably and he found
himself looking away to the fire again. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You asked,” Dumbledore replied with surprising simplicity.
The boy found himself looking back at the man, somewhat startled. He hesitated
for an instant, tongue pressed lightly on the edge of his two upper front teeth
as though holding back whatever he was going to say. Then he smiled. “Thank
you, sir.”
The elderly man offered a tremulous smile of his own. “Harry, I really don’t
want you to think—”
“I don’t!” he interrupted. “Really . . .” He squirmed again. “I don’t think
you’d . . . I mean, you wouldn’t have told me that if you did, would you?
Because, then I’d always be wondering if you were mucking about in my head all
the time.”
“And you won’t wonder now?” he asked, his blue eyes seeming to pierce Harry.
Harry pursed his lips slightly. “I don’t know,” he said honestly after a
moment. He looked down and was slightly surprised to see that he was wringing
his hands. He watched the fingers of his right hand worry the knuckles of his
left hand. “I . . .” Green eyes rose again to meet the Headmaster’s blue ones.
“I don’t like some of the things you do. I don’t know if I can trust you . . .
But I’ll trust you with this. Even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.”
Albus settled back in his seat and looked tired. “An honest answer,” he
observed in a strangely pensive tone. “Thank you, Harry.” He steepled his hands
again. “I would like you to resume your lessons with Severus.”
An expression like pain twitched over Harry’s face. “Severus hates me,” he
whispered lowly.
Albus shook his head. “Professor Snape hates himself sometimes. You, however .
. . I don’t think he really can hate you, and that upsets him.”
Far from being comforted, Harry hunched over in his seat. “I don’t want to
upset him. And I don’t want to hurt him anymore. I don’t want to see him.”
“He’s your professor,” Dumbledore explained in a gentle voice. “And if you
don’t want to see him anymore, I think that would hurt him even worse.”
Harry looked up, his eyes dark. “Will you force me to do it?”
The headmaster tugged at his beard thoughtfully as he looked at his protégé.
“No,” he replied after a moment. “But I want you to consider it. I would like
you to continue your shielding practices, but I want to take a week off your
lessons while we try to figure out what could be blocking you. If it is alright
for you, I’d like to invite an old friend here next Tuesday to see you. She has
some rather versatile skills that may help point us in the right direction.
Then, if you still do not wish to see Professor Snape, we will work something
else out. Depending on what we find, you may not be able to move any farther in
your Occlumency. In which case, we will simply have to look for other
alternatives. Is that alright with you, child?”
Harry shrugged moodily and turned back to the fire. A gentle touch on his hand
startled him and his head snapped back ‘round.
“I want you to know, though,” the Professor said in a quiet voice, “if you have
the time, I still would like to see every Tuesday.” He smiled once more. “I
have found that my week seems quite empty without our tea.”
Harry turned his hand so that he could grip those gnarled fingers tightly. “I
would like that,” he said, trying to send every bit of sincerity that he could
through the touch.
Albus squeezed his fingers back and sat up a bit straighter. Fawkes trilled
happily.
Harry pulled back in his chair, feeling both pleased and strangely awkward.
“May I stay here a bit longer? I don’t really feel like eating in the Hall
tonight . . .”
The Headmaster smiled, one of his usual blinding grins that never failed to
make their recipient feel better. “I’ll call Dobby. Your book is in your chair
by the fire.”
The brunet paused in the act of getting up and shot Dumbledore a suspicious
look. “Did you know I’d want to stay here, sir?”
Blue eyes danced in response as the old man removed a fresh tin of lemon drops
from one of his numerous drawers and popped two into his mouth. “Hope springs
eternal in the human breast, my boy.” He held out the tin. “Lemon drop?”
And Harry was surprised to hear himself laugh softly.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
The trees of the Forbidden Forest rustled faintly, but there was no wind. The
girl shuddered in fear and crouched down at the edge of the wards that
surrounded the school, feeling for the slight tingle of magic that would tell
her exactly where the wards ended. She sighed when she found it, more relieved
than she had thought possible, and reached into her robe for the small golden
ball he’d given her.
”Only someone with a pure purpose can pierce the wards of Hogwarts,” he’d told
her. “That’s why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cannot breach them, no matter how
strong his magic.”
“But how do you know it will work? What if my purpose isn’t pure enough?”
He had laughed at her when she’d said that. “Your purpose is true love, isn’t
it? Don’t you love him? Don’t you want to save him from Snape? Then you have
nothing to worry about. If you really love him—truly love him and want to save
him—the wards will accept this Ostium Sphere without any problem.”
“And this will help him?”
“Of course it will. You’ve seen what’s happening . . . Snape on one side . . .
Malfoy cozying up to him on the other. The way things are going, he’ll be
taking the Dark Mark before the end of the term. And believe me, I am in a
position to know a Death Eater when I see one.”
“But last week—”
“Was an act. Trust me; my friends will come and talk some sense into him—show
him how evil You-Know-Who is and remind him how much depends on him. He’ll
thank you for it. I swear it.”
With a heavy sigh, she stared down at the Ostium Sphere. While she wasn’t sure
exactly how it would work, she knew that it would create a small hole in the
wards. No one would even notice it unless they were standing right on top of
it. Not even the Headmaster would know.
Punching a hole in the Wards . . . She didn’t like the idea. She could be
expelled if she was discovered. . . . But it would only bring his friends in,
right? And then they’d help Harry. They would.
Because she couldn’t.
She had tried, but she just couldn’t. He was never in the dorms, never in the
Common Room, never near her, and Ron and Hermione didn’t even know who she was.
Part of her wanted to tell them—after all, they were supposed to be Harry’s
best friends, right?—but they never had time for her and every single time she
tried to talk to them, her tongue seemed to get all knotted in itself and her
stomach fluttered. No one even saw her.
It also didn’t help that the Trio never really talked to anyone but each other.
They weren’t rude or anything, they just didn’t really seem to have any other
real friends outside of one another. And the rest of the Sixth Years were too
absorbed in Sixth Year things to pay any mind to her . . .
So she would do this on her own. Her brothers and her parents didn’t think she
was cut out for Gryffindor—didn’t think she was brave enough, or bold enough,
or Lion enough for Gryffindor.
“I thought for sure she’d be a Hufflepuff,” she had heard her brother whisper
to another Fifth Year once.
Well, she’d show them. She’d show them all and prove that she was worthy of
Harry Potter and the Trio, to boot.
Determined to follow through with the plan, the girl set the sphere on the
ground and nudged it into the path of the wards. It pulsed once very brightly
the moment it made contact with the wards, but then turned milky white before
vanishing from sight. The Gryffindor exhaled, her task complete, and settled
back on her heels in relief.
“Thank Merlin . . .”
A shadow suddenly fell over her and she twisted around with a startled shriek.
Strong hands caught her before she could really lose her balance, and soft
laughter came from above her. She blinked against the bright shining in her
eyes and frowned up at him, barely able to contain her relief. “You!”
He pulled her upright and looked back at where she had been kneeling. “It’s
done?”
She brushed her robes off and stared up at the Seventh Year with a frown. “Yes,
I—W—what are you doing here?” Her small hands hovered anxiously over her skirt
and the wind blew, sending her long black hair into her eyes.
The boy nodded, still looking at the space she’d just vacated. “When I didn’t
see you at dinner, I wanted to be sure you had no difficulties. Where is it?”
He pushed a hand through his thick, sandy hair, pulling it out of his jade-
colored eyes.
The girl walked past him and stretched out her right hand, feeling the warm
swell of the wards until she found the cold space where the hole was. She waved
her hand through the space, trying to feel out its perimeter. “Here,” she said
softly, indicating the area with a wave of her hand.
There was a sudden rending noise and she whirled around, hand still suspended
in space, to see her companion ripping the Slytherin badge off his robes. She
gaped as he knelt next to her to place the torn off patch on the ground.
He carefully nudged the badge to the very edge of the hole. “Tear off your
badge and put it in. We need to mark the entrance.”
Her hands fluttered up to her badge without thinking and she found herself
tugging at the material. The Gryffindor patch came off with surprising ease,
red thread snapping in protest. She handed it to him in silence. Her robes
seemed strangely lighter without it.
“You should go back,” the older boy said as he placed her badge on the other
end of the invisible hole. “There’ll be questions if we’re seen together.”
She hesitated, feeling rather useless now that her part was done. “You know . .
.” Her robes swayed around her as she took a tentative step towards him. “I’m
going to have my eye color changed over Christmas hols . . . Black. Do you
think it would suit me?”
The Slytherin looked up at her, his green eyes shining curiously bright. “You
know . . . I really think you’re quite pretty the way you are.”
She blushed a deep dusty rose color and looked at the ground, wistfully wishing
that he was Harry.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Harry sat bolt upright, glasses askew, when Ron dropped a heavy tome next to
his head. He blinked owlishly in the bright overhead lights of the Library and
stared up at his two best friends.
Hermione pursed her lip and looked down at the Gryffindor Seeker, her hazel
eyes hard with determination. She waved her wand to cast a silencing charm and
sighed quietly. “We need to talk, Harry.”
Harry shifted in his seat uneasily as his friends sat down uninvited. The three
of them were ensconced in a study carol at the very back of the Library, as far
from Madam Pince’s prying eyes and dismissive sniffs as possible. Not too many
of the other students came back here anymore. Not only was it far from the
stacks, it had also become unofficially known as Harry’s private little corner,
and—as he was apparently rather high on Snape’s proverbial radar—Harry had
quickly become persona non gratis outside of Gryffindor house. It actually made
the study cubby the perfect place to have this type of discussion: private, and
with all the exits covered. No one could approach without them knowing it, but
Harry also couldn’t leave without pushing past his two best friends. And they
didn’t exactly seem to be in the mood to let him slide this evening.
Unable to meet their eyes, Harry found himself staring down at the book he’d
been reading before he drifted off. A woodcut image of a banshee stared back at
him, black and white eyes glaring up through a long tangle of wild hair. He
shut the book quickly and wondered how long she’d been staring at him while he
slept.
Ron took the book away from him, picking it up and flipping it over to read the
title. Bold black scroll print identified the brown leather-bound volume as
False Parables: The Real Dark Arts by Sliverene Haagg, and Ron looked at his
friend with unabashed concern.
“Dark Arts, mate?”
“No . . .” Harry’s voice was soft, but honest. “Dumbledore won’t let me learn
them. I asked already.”
Hermione made a disapproving noise in her throat and Harry’s gaze hardened.
“What else do you expect me to do? Do you really think that Expelliarmus will
be enough against Lord Voldemort? Because it won’t be—believe, me, I’ve tried
it.”
The girl’s disapproval faded a bit, but didn’t vanish. “Still . . .”
Harry scowled, irritated with her despite himself. “Is this what you wanted to
talk to me about?”
“No.” Ron pushed the book aside and leaned forward so that Harry’s attention
was drawn away from his girlfriend. He pressed his lips together in a hard,
disapproving line and said one curt, self-explanatory word: “Snape.”
All the blood drained from Harry’s face and his eyes widened before he could
control his reaction. He looked away quickly. “S—Snape? What about him?” As he
turned away from Ron, he found himself face to face with Hermione. He couldn’t
avoid one’s eyes without looking at the other’s, so he twitched back and forth
for an indecisive moment before simply looking down at the table. “What about
him?” he repeated to the time blackened, polished wood. Hidden under the table,
he began to wring his hands in his lap.
Hermione sat back and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “We’re worried about
you, Harry. You’re like a ghost these days. We . . . We only want to help you.
We’ve been talking—” Harry’s eyes darted up to see Ron nod and then he
immediately looked away again “—and we know Snape is involved somehow.”
The brunet between them pulled back farther into his seat and placed his hands
on the table. He stared at his raw, reddened knuckles with a faintly nauseous
look on his face. “He—I . . .” He swallowed thickly and looked up, a strained
smile on his face, and gave an odd little laugh. “He hates me. You know that.
Everyone knows that.” He swallowed again and wondered why he felt a burning
sensation in the back of his throat.
Ron snorted and crossed his arms as he settled back in his seat. He scowled
darkly at the smaller boy across from him. “Shut it, Harry. You’re lying.
Badly. You were a right mess last week and we want to know why. We’ve given you
space, but enough is enough, mate. Normally you’d storm and rant or have a good
row with Snape, but now you’re acting like—like—like a—”
“Like he broke your heart,” Hermione finished quietly.
Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his nails scraping the table top with the
motion.
Hermione sat up again and tentatively placed her hand gently atop on one of
those fists. He didn’t look up at her.
“Harry . . .” The girl bit her lip. “Look, I know we’ve been . . . distracted
this term. And I know that you probably needed us and we weren’t—”
Harry’s head snapped up suddenly. “I don’t . . .” He trailed off uncomfortably
and turned to Ron as though seeking support, but the Gryffindor Keeper merely
watched him with a look of guilty concern.
Harry frowned and looked between his two Housemates. “You two are my best
friends,” he said carefully after a moment. He removed his hand from Hermione’s
with a soft tug. “My first friends and my very best friends. More so than . . .
well, anybody really.” The dark-haired teen rolled his shoulders, looking
acutely uncomfortable. “I ask too much of you sometimes. This . . . What I have
to do . . . It’s my fight. And I don’t want you two to get hurt.” He smiled
faintly. “I’m really glad you two are together. And I don’t feel left out. Not
really.”
If anything, Ron’s scowl had deepened while Harry spoke. Once the smaller teen
was done, the redhead crossed his legs, propping his left foot up on his right
knee, and leaned back in his set, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s all well
and good, mate, and you’re our best friend too. . . . Which is why we’re not
going to let you worm your way out of this. You’re right: this is your fight.
And that makes it our fight, too.”
Harry simply stared back at him blankly, as though he was unable to process
what Ron was saying, and the youngest Weasley son threw his hands up in the air
in disgust. “Bloody hell, Harry! We’ve fought giant chess people, been
petrified, kidnapped by merpeople, damn near eaten by acromantulas, battled
Death Eaters, gone down to the Chamber of Secrets, knocked two professors
unconscious, been nearly eaten by a werewolf, attacked by Dementors, gone back
in time with a Time Turner, helped an escaped convict at least a dozen times,
broken nearly every school rule possible—not to mention Ministry laws—smuggled
out dragons, sent a professor out to be attacked by centaurs and a giant,
ridden thestrals to London, battled trolls, started a secret army that was
suspected of wanting to overthrow the Ministry, lost at least a thousand House
Points between us, helped get Dumbledore temporarily sacked, helped save the
school at least three times, and served more detentions with Snape than any
other Gryffindors in the history of Hogwarts, just so that we could hang out
with you.” He stopped and took a deep, much needed breath, his face bright red.
He looked back up at Harry, blue eyes shining in amusement. “Really, mate, do
you honestly think a little thing like V—V—Vol—Voldemort—” Ron stopped,
apparently startled that he had finally said the name. Then he grinned and
puffed himself up slightly. “Do you honestly think a little thing like
V—Voldemort is going to stop us now? Really, you must be one hell of a bloke to
inspire so much loyalty.”
Harry grinned at his friend’s obvious enthusiasm, but then the expression
melted away. “But what if it’s more than Voldemort?”
He seemed to draw into himself once more and Hermione immediately jumped in.
“You mean Snape?”
Harry shook his head, but remained silent for a moment. He found himself
staring down at his hands again. “I mean . . . What if . . . I was different
again? Different like speaking parseltongue again?”
The last of Ron’s smile vanished and Hermione looked a bit lost. “How . . .
different . . .? Does Dumbledore know? Is it about Voldemort? Or those
muggles?”
Harry kept his eyes fixed on his lap. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered
restlessly, unconsciously echoing his words from Potions last week. He looked
as though he would like to be anywhere but there. “I . . .” The Potter heir
swallowed hard and looked up at his friends. “Is it . . . is it really such an
awful thing to . . . to fancy blokes?”
Ron’s eyes widened and he sat back in his seat heavily, almost collapsing. His
mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Hermione blinked at him, frozen,
apparently at a loss for words. Harry just wanted to sink through the floor and
die.
“You . . .” Ron blinked several times and shook his head as though trying to
clear it. “You’re a poof?”
Harry sunk down into his chair.
“All this drama,” the redhead sputtered, face flushed and looking more than a
bit incredulous, “because—because you’re a bloody ponce?!”
The ball of anger in Harry’s stomach quivered and lurched. He tasted bile in
his throat.
Hermione just looked at him as though he was something she’d never seen before,
her brow knitted in confusion.
And then Ron suddenly exploded into gales of laughter.
Harry started, suddenly furious, as the Gryffindor Keeper fell out of his chair
to the subtly red carpet, holding his side as he laughed. “You—we thought—” the
teen’s face was even redder than his hair “—Merlin’s blood, we thought it was
Sirius! Or You-Know-Who!” Tears rolled down his cheeks and he could barely talk
for laughing.
Harry stood up so abruptly his chair fell over backwards. His face was flushed
with rage and hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side, but his voice
was deadly quiet. “Think this is funny, do you?”
Hermione recognized the tone immediately and her eyes widened in surprise. “But
that’s just so normal,” she blurted out.
Harry paused, anger momentarily forgotten as he stared at her in disbelief, and
Ron laughed so hard he started choking.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the girl. “Normal?”
The hazel-eyed prefect stood and made a placating gesture with her hands,
flushing in embarrassment as she tried to get Harry to sit back down. “Well,
maybe not normal, but compared to . . . I mean . . . It’s just . . . Well . . .
We weren’t expecting that . . .” Suddenly she turned to where her boyfriend was
still chuckling and trying to catch his breath. “Ronald Weasley, get off the
floor this instant and stop being a prat!”
Harry frowned at the two of them, anger and embarrassment fading, but not gone.
Ron took a moment more to collect himself before pulling himself back up to his
chair with a great deal of effort. Hermione sent pleading looks Harry’s way
until he bent down to retrieve his chair and then also took a seat. The three
of them sat in an awkward silence for a few moments as Ron finished collecting
himself and Harry bit at his lower lip.
Finally the redhead seemed to have recovered and he sat back in his chair more
comfortably. “Really,” he insisted, still looking amused, “what’s going on?”
Harry shot his friend a dark look. “I’m not making this up. I . . . I think I’m
gay.”
Hermione was steadily shooting Ron looks that plainly said ‘Don’t say anything
stupid!’ but Ron was ignoring her. The Weasley son stared, his brows knit in
confusion as he eyed Harry. After a moment he frowned slightly. “You’re really
not having us on, are you?”
Harry squirmed slightly, but remained silent.
“Oh . . .”
“Well, um . . .” Hermione leaned forward to try and capture one of Harry’s
hands again, but he moved. Undeterred, she continued. “Well, there are wizards
and witches who . . .” She seemed to flounder for a moment.
“Play Beater for the same team,” Ron interjected, earning himself a nasty look
from his girlfriend.
“Right!” the prefect continued gamely, looking as though she was just starting
to warm to the subject. Her eyes took on the distant look they always did when
she began to think of books. “In fact, I saw this book at Flourish and Botts
that was all about homosexuality and homosexual witches and wizards. Did you
know that there are spells that can only be done by them? And Bonding
Spells—things like Soul Bonds and Fidelity Bonds—don’t care what preference a
participant has: if your Soul Mate is a man, he’ll be chosen for you regardless
of whom you’re attracted to . . . Binding spells are the ones that deal in
preference . . .” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And, if memory serves me, I
believe that there was some speculation about Merlin himself being bi-sexual .
. . Latent attraction to King Arthur and all, but that’s only fringe theory and
rumor, nothing substantial. And then there was Ptolemy . . . But ancient
peoples were much more lax about sexuality. The Spartans actually had
institutionalized homosexuality in their military—they found that the warriors
were more likely to be fiercer if they were fighting along side their lovers.
Though, they did try to discourage it, as it was bad for procreation. I think
it was only after Judeo Christian ideologies began to spread that people
started to really clamp down on it . . . But then there was always Islam and
Africa, not to mention India and Asia. I actually don’t know about India and
Asia; I’ll have to do more research . . . But in the Ottoman Empire—”
“Hermione!”
The girl jumped suddenly as Harry’s voice cut through her thoughts. She blinked
several times before focusing on the two boys and then blushed faintly when she
saw them staring.
Ron still looked somewhat bewildered, but she didn’t know if that was because
of her or Harry. “We called you three times,” he said, exasperation leaking
into his voice.
Her cheeks burned. “Sorry.”
Harry laughed softly, a strangely sad, humorless sound, and buried his head in
his arms tiredly. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the position squished
his glasses into his face in a way that couldn’t have possibly been
comfortable. His friends traded worried looks and then frowned at him in
concern. Ron fidgeted, plainly unsure what he was supposed to do or how to
react. Hermione leaned forward in her chair and hesitantly ran a hand through
Harry’s hair in a gesture of comfort. When Harry didn’t shift or protest, she
sighed and scooted her seat closer so that she could lean down and rest her
head on his back. His heart sounded dull and distant in her ears.
“I’m sorry,” the boy murmured after a moment.
Hermione shook her head, still resting it on his back. “For what? You’ve
nothing to be sorry for.”
Ron nodded even though Harry couldn’t see it, and rested his head on the table
as well, using his arms for a pillow. “She’s right, mate,” he urged, still
looking and sounding just a touch off balance. “I mean . . . It’s weird . . . I
just—I mean I never even considered . . . But if that’s what makes you happy,
then that’s what makes you happy. I guess.” He frowned and his forehead
wrinkled. “It’s just weird,” he repeated. “But I’ll get used to it.”
Hermione lifted her head so that she could smile at Ron and Harry shifted
before slowly pushing himself upright. He looked relieved, but no less tired.
Hermione scooted back away from him to give him room and the Potter heir looked
back and forth between his friends.
He scrubbed a hand over his scar thoughtlessly, as though pushing something
away, and squinted a bit behind his glasses. There were livid-looking reddish
marks where they had pressed into his face. “You don’t . . . think there’s
anything wrong with me then? It’s not a bad thing?”
Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s not a bad thing Harry . . . But
some people won’t like it. The Wizarding World in general tolerates
homosexuals, but some muggleborns might not. Opinions are mixed. And, well,
you’re Harry Potter. If people find out—even if it isn’t their business—they’re
going to make it their business, and a lot of the people who are going to make
the most noise will probably be the ones who don’t like it.”
Harry’s lips twisted in a dark smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe we can
just keep it a secret?” he suggested a bit hopelessly.
Ron’s expression darkened slightly at the bleak look on his friend’s face.
“Well, we can certainly try, mate. And you know ‘Mione and I can keep our
mouths shut, but things like this have a way of getting out. People will have
to find out sometime. Unless you want to just stay celibate and the like.” The
idea seemed to perk Ron up considerably and he straightened, eyes shining with
a strange eagerness. “You don’t, do you? Because that would be brilliant!”
Harry gave the redhead a black look, quickly squelching his apparent happiness,
and Ron slouched again. He hunched over slightly, once more resting his chin on
his arms, and glared at the table top. “Well, you needn’t look at me like that.
You really are a good friend and all, Harry—you’re practically a Weasley. So
you can see why I really don’t know want to know about you taking it up the
ar—”
Hermione’s eyes grew round as teacups. “Ron!” Her voice came out as a squeal
and she blushed scarlet.
Harry also turned bright red and once again hid his face in his arms.
Ron sat up and crossed his arms, looking personally affronted. “Well, I don’t!
Merlin! That’s like—that’s like some bloke messing with Ginny. Really, mate, I
think I’d have to hurt him.” His blue eyes flickered between the two of them as
though daring him to challenge him.
Hermione glared at her boyfriend. “You didn’t seem to feel that way about Cho,”
she stated, a warning plain in her voice.
“That’s different,” the Weasley boy replied, his tone implying that the answer
should be obvious. “Cho is a girl.”
“Really?” his girlfriend all but purred. “Why is Harry having sex with a girl
different from Harry having sex with a boy?”
Still hidden in his arms, Harry’s face was so red that he was amazed that he
wasn’t sweating blood.
Ron frowned, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort or the thin ice on which he seemed
to be walking. “Well . . .” He floundered for a moment and looked around for
help. “Well . . . Harry’s never shagged a bloke before!” Suddenly, he blanched
and gave his best friend an absolutely horrified look. “You haven’t, have you?”
Harry sat upright as though he’d been bitten and the flush staining his face
crawled down to his neck. “I haven’t shagged anyone!” he squeaked in an
embarrassingly shrill voice. His embarrassment suddenly faded when he
remembered the expression on Severus’s face last week and he slumped. “And it
doesn’t look like I’ll be doing it anytime soon, either.” He frowned at Ron,
his former ill-humor remembered. “And even when I do, I hardly think I’ll give
you a blow by blow account or anything.”
At the word ‘blow,’ Ron paled even further until his freckles stood out in
painful contrast to his hair.
Harry couldn’t help but snicker at the nauseous look on his face. He smiled at
his beleaguered friend. “Relax, Ron. I haven’t changed. Not really. And I’m
hardly going to start running around and touching up every boy I see. Anyway,
most of the boys at Hogwarts aren’t all that great. Probably why it took me so
long to notice, actually.”
Ron seemed to be staring at nothing. “I didn’t need to know that. I really
didn’t need to know that.”
“You’re the one who keeps talking about me shagging people,” the other boy
pointed out.
“Just promise me you won’t start on Malfoy soon or anything.” Ron shuddered
violently. “I mean, Malfoy . . .”
Harry snorted. “Malfoy’s a rodent.” He wisely neglected to point out that,
however much of a prick the blond was, Malfoy had a nice arse. It would have
probably sent Ron in fits.
Hermione groaned, unable to fully squelch her own blush, and dragged the two
other Gryffindors back to the point. “True, but Ron’s right about one thing, at
least. People will find out somehow. This kind of thing does have a way of
getting around.
Her eyes narrowed in thought before refocusing on him. “We can try to keep it
under wraps, and of course Ron and I would never say anything, but . . . Well,
this isn’t something that will stay buried long if you decide to start seeing
someone. Opinions will vary. But it will probably blow over soon enough.
Anyway, there are fairly common spells and potions that help homosexual witches
and wizard have children together and everything. You can even buy them in
Diagon Alley and in Hogsmeade. Plus, some of those spells that I mentioned that
only homosexuals can do are really useful. As far as I know, they all fall
under Sexual Magic and Ritual Magic, but they’re still powerful and are used in
lots of places. The Founders were even said to have employed such spells when
Warding the grounds.”
Ron wrinkled his nose. “Why?”
“Some Sexual Magic spells have extremely powerful protective properties,
particularly if the copulation is between two people who love one another,”
Hermione responded in her ‘teacher’ voice. “Sexual Magic is not only the
harnessing of raw magical power, but—the White Magic spells, at least—also have
strong benevolence and pleasure overtones. The Founders wanted Hogwarts to be a
place of love, joy, safety, and life; all of which are very prominently
displayed by White Sexual Magic.” She eyed her boyfriend with a severe
expression. “It’s all in Hogwarts: A History, you know.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. What isn’t in that bloody book?”
Hermione’s expression immediately became thunderous and Harry suddenly found
himself chuckling at the two’s antics. It seemed like it had been a long time
since he felt this . . . normal.
Hermione switched her glare to Harry and he raised his hands in defense, still
smiling. “I’ll put it on my reading list,” he offered with a wry smirk.
Ron snorted.
The girl eyed her friends mutinously, still ruffled. “It’s a perfectly
marvelous book,” she sniffed. “Full of loads of useful things.”
Harry waved his hands through the air dismissively. “No one’s better at finding
information than you, Hermione.” She flushed and Harry leaned forward a bit to
draw his friends’ attention back to what he was saying. “Actually, since I’ve
started on all this studying for class and everything, I’ve really started
thinking.”
He paused as though unsure how to continue. Hermione leaned forward slightly to
coax Harry to continue and the Seeker cast an uncertain look at Ron before
shifting his shoulders uncomfortable.
Harry cleared his throat unnecessarily. “Hogwarts is a target, no matter how
confident Dumbledore is in the Wards. I haven’t spoken to him about it because
I wanted to see what you two thought first, but I want to start up the D.A.
again.”
Ron frowned slightly, but Harry hurried on before the other teen could speak.
“I remember the Department of Mysteries and how the fighting was down there. We
need to know more. And I need help. Reading all these spells is all well and
good, but I need to practice them and Dumbledore doesn’t want to know what all
I’m studying. He made it clear that if he had official knowledge that I was
‘misusing’ my pass, he’d have to revoke it. Plus, I don’t know anything about
tactics or strategy and some of these books I’ve found are getting really
advanced and I feel a bit lost.” He pressed his lips into a firm line. “I want
everyone else to be prepared, too. Dumbledore’s been saying lately that this
war could drag on for years . . . that it could be worse than the first one—a
lot worse. I can’t help with the Order until I have a better grip on
Occlumency, but I don’t just want to sit around, either. Will you help me? I
mean, like I said: Hermione, you’re the best when it comes to research, and no
one can beat Ron at strategy. There’s a lot you two could teach me, and—with
all the studying I’ve been doing—I think we could make the D.A. loads better
than last term.” He smiled wanly. “Especially since we don’t have to hide from
Umbridge.” He took a deep breath and looked at them expectantly.
Both Ron and Hermione were blushing again, but this time it was with pleasure,
not embarrassment. Hermione’s eyes fairly glowed.
“Well, I’m definitely in! I was taking to Susan about it during Ancient Runes
the other day and apparently a bunch of students feel the same. They were just
worried about bothering you because you’ve looked so busy and Ron and I have
been . . .” here the blush increased slightly “. . . distracted.”
Ron scratched the back of his head. “I’m in, too. Neville was making noises
about his D.A.D.A. grades and I’m getting a bit worried, too. Professor
Whistlemeel may not have it in for you, Harry, but her tests are a lot more
difficult than the class. There was stuff on that last one that we didn’t even
cover.”
“She tests two chapters ahead in the book,” Hermione interjected absently.
Ron stared at her. “You mean, you’ve been listening to me complain all last
month about those exams and you didn’t tell me that before?”
“I was hoping that you’d take it upon yourself to actually do your homework,”
the girl replied in a tart voice. She turned back to Harry. “You’ll talk to
Dumbledore, won’t you? Ron and I will talk to others.” The idea of re-starting
the club seemed to have energized her once more.
Harry nodded and began to gather his books. “You two had better get going. It’s
almost curfew and Snape’ll have kittens if he catches a Gryffindor out of bed.”
Ron stood up and stretched. “Didn’t you hear?” He handed Harry a book as he
spoke. “Snape’s gone.”
False Parables: The Real Dark Arts slid limply out of Harry’s hands and landed
on the table with a thump. Pale, Harry looked up at Ron, his eyes round and
haunted. “He quit?”
Hermione looked over at the dark-hair teen sharply, a suspicious frown
wrinkling her brow. “No . . . Professor Kettleburn said that he had family
business to attend to and would resume teaching again next week. Are you okay,
Harry?”
He shook himself slightly and resumed gathering his books. “I’m fine,” he told
the tabletop. “You two had better go, though.” He looked up with a small smile
that didn’t reach his eyes. “We may have gotten rid of Snape, but Filch is
still out there.”
Ron waved his wand to disperse the Charms they’d cast around themselves.
“Finite Incantum.” He frowned at Harry. “What about you?” he asked in a near
whisper.
“I have to put these away. Anyway, one of us stands a better chance of getting
up to the dorm unseen than three of us, and I’ve been doing this all year. I
promise I’ll be right up, but you need to go.” He flipped his hand at them,
waving them towards the door to emphasize the point.
Ron still looked reluctant. “A half an hour, mate, and then we come looking for
you, got it?”
Harry nodded, busying himself with packing his bag.
Hermione took a slow step towards him, her eyes clouded with suspicion. “Harry,
about Snape—”
“It’s nothing,” the boy interrupted. “Now go.”
“You’re certain there’s nothing to tell us?” she pressed.
Harry’s head snapped up and he looked at her with a dark look she’d never seen
before. His eyes were so intense that she took a step back instinctively. Ron
started at the expression in the other boy’s eyes.
For a moment Harry held the eye contact and then looked away. He stared down at
the battered quill in his hand. “No,” he responded with a shake of his head.
His voice sounded strangely distant. “There’s nothing there. Snape hates me. He
really hates me.”
Hermione looked at him for a moment before nodding slowly in understanding. She
took a step towards him and gently squeezed his forearm in support. “Hurry
back. You know Professor McGonagall will have a fit if you’re out after
curfew.”
He nodded without looking up.
Ron came forward and grabbed Hermione’s free hand in his own and pulled her
away. “Half an hour, mate,” he reminded before they departed.
They didn’t speak until they were out of the Library.
Hermione removed her hand from Ron’s and popped the knuckles on her right hand
as they headed towards the stairs. “You shouldn’t have reacted that way,” she
chided softly. “After what Myrtle said—”
“I didn’t think about it,” he interrupted, suddenly looking a bit freaked out
again. “I mean . . . Well . . . When do you honestly think you’re best friend’s
gay? It’s too weird.” He looked a bit green. “Weird,” he repeated.
The girl was starting to think that was going to be Ron’s favorite word
regarding this latest development.
Ron became quiet for a moment. “He was lying about Snape, though.” The redhead
bit his lip and his mouth twisted in disgust. “He fancies him.” He shuddered
violently. “He fancies Snape and the greasy bastard not only molested him, but
then he said all those awful things in class last week . . .”
Hermione stopped and gripped his wrist, recognizing the signs of Ron’s temper.
Ron jerked to a halt and looked down at her, startled. Then he frowned. “We
have to report him to Dumbledore. Professors shouldn’t be messing with
students. Anyway, Harry might not even be gay. Snape’s just got him all
confused and—”
“He’ll be sacked,” Hermione hissed.
She cast a quick glance around the hall and then hauled Ron into an isolated
alcove. There was a young man in a portrait who snorted himself awake when they
entered the little corner and began making kissy noises. Ron glared at the man
and made a threatening gesture until the man sniffed, insulted, and left the
portrait. Ron turned his attention back to Hermione.
“He deserves to be sacked! he whispered back furiously. “Harry was mess because
of him. The entire school’s in an uproar. Merlin, we haven’t even snogged in
three days because of this mess!”
Hermione blushed, but was not deterred. “Ron, think! Snape is a spy. The
Headmaster cannot get rid of him. Besides, Professor Dumbledore has tea with
Harry every week and they practice Occlumency. Do you really think he doesn’t
know? Something else has to be going on here. Anyway, if we went to the
Headmaster or Professor McGonagall, Harry would be furious. He’d think we
betrayed him. Hopefully the D.A. will distract Harry enough so that he can work
this out, but right now the best thing we can do is wait. If we approach Snape,
who know what he’ll do, and Harry’s not going to give up any more than he
already has.”
“So that’s it? We just wait till that student-molesting, slimy bastard does
something else? We already know he hit Harry. Maybe next time he’ll put him in
the Hospital Wing!”
“No.” Hermione’s eyes darkened slightly at the memory of the look on Harry’s
face last week. “No. This time we watch. We know what to look for now, and D.A.
will give us more of a chance to watch Harry. We’ll have to start studying
together again to teach D.A. and he said he wants our help anyway. And if Snape
does anything else to Harry, we’ll find a way to deal with it ourselves without
getting Snape sacked and without Harry finding out. He has enough to worry
about as it is.”
Ron paused and then smiled down at his girlfriend. He laughed softly.
“Brilliant, but scary,” he murmured.
Hermione blushed and tried to duck her head, but Ron caught her chin and pulled
her up into a gentle kiss. A shiver ran up her spine and she parted his lips
beneath him, unable to stop herself from clutching at his forearms when she
felt the tip of his tongue flicker against her bottom lip. Feeling shaky and
breathless, she pulled away.
“We’ll be caught,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“No fun at all,” her groused. But then Ron kissed the top of her head and
pulled away with a long-suffering sigh.
Hermione extracted herself from the corner and straightened her uniform
unnecessarily. “Come on. Ms. Norris will be on the prowl.”
Ron joined her, fussing with his tie grumpily. “Must you always be so proper?”
The girl sniffed in disdain and began to head up towards the stairs once more
with surprisingly rapid steps. “Yes, I must. I’m a prefect. So are you, I might
add. Anyway,” she continued, pausing to look over her shoulder, “if we’re
caught, then we’ll hardly have any private time at all in the boy’s dorm before
Seamus, Neville, and Justin barge in. So hurry it up.”
Ron blinked, stunned at his girlfriend’s words, and found himself entranced by
the all-too-rare light of mischief sparkling in her hazel eyes. She laughed at
him and he suddenly found himself hurrying, all other concerns momentarily
forgotten.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** Six II: The Reapers Reaping Early *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                              ~ Chapter Six II ~
                           The Reapers Reaping Early
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                            “We stand in a circle,
                            We stand in the square:
                             The power of numbers—
                             The power of prayer.
                            The churches are empty,
                           The priest has gone home;
                           And we are left standing
                               Together alone.”

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
My father is a monstrous human being. But he is a human being nonetheless. I
remind myself of this as I walk the long, heavily wooded path that leads to
Snape Manor. Snape Manor. My home.
The Wards that shield the manor from muggles also prevent direct Apparition. It
would be too much to expect the old man to have sent me a portkey. That leaves
me with a five mile walk to the house from the nearest Apparition point.
Normally, I would have enjoyed the walk—used the distance to collect and center
myself. Now, I simply wish it was over and done with and I was back in the
quiet and shattered glass of my quarters. I must have done something truly
awful to the House Elves, for now the only one that can bear my presence is the
blubbering creature Crouch dismissed two years ago.
I find myself thinking of Potter and wondering what he is doing. Wondering if
he is alright. Wondering if he still misses me.
Then I find myself trying to think of nothing at all—to Occloud my mind from
myself and ignore the fact that this child has taken up residence under my very
skin.
It is hot and I find myself wishing I had worn cooler robes, but my black,
multi-layer work robes were the only clean ones I could find. For a moment, I
seriously debate going back to Hogwarts to change, but my pocket watch tells me
that it’s 1:00 PM and I stepped into the boundaries of the Wards at exactly 12:
30. I’m already on Snape land. I can leave now, but I know I’ll not be able to
return. The thought does not disturb me. There is little in the Manor that
interests me—some portraits and heirlooms of my mother, the books in my
father’s study and the library, my paternal great-grandfather’s potions’ notes
. . . Really, considering the size of the estate—mostly my mother’s dowry—there
are few things I desire from that place.
I stop in the middle of the road and turn around to look behind me. The dusty
path vanishes in a curve and is hidden by tall, sickly looking oak trees, the
yellow and red leaves turning the whole area into a fiery riot of autumn
colors. There are no birds or animals in this place, nor have there ever been
in my lifetime. Any creature foolish enough to roam onto Snape land usually met
an unpleasant end as part of my father’s ‘research.’ Creatures, both light and
dark, quickly learned to avoid this place. The lack of life gives the forest
path a dead, lusterless quality to it—like one of those muggle portraits that
do not move.
I walk to the edge of the road and sit beneath a maple tree that looks dead
despite its turning leaves. I allow my head to fall back to rest against the
bark and stare up at a cerulean blue afternoon sky.
Why did I come to this place? I am besieged by a strange urgency—a profound
need to return to Hogwarts. I feel out of place, as though I’ve lost something,
and I know that if I take even one step backwards on the path, I’ll not stop
until I’ve reached the edge of the Wards and gone back to the school. To
Dumbledore. To Potter.
I close my eyes.
Until I met Potter, I was not in the habit of running away. Strategically
retreating, yes. Running, no. If I leave now, it will be running and I know
that, but the idea of going even one step further towards the Manor—away from
Potter (Hogwarts!)—is enough to make me feel ill.
I should return to Hogwarts.
Dread crawls up my throat like bile and I exhale heavily to rid myself of the
sensation.
I should return, but I will not. I came here to escape Hogwarts—that brat and
that sadistic old bastard—and the idea of returning like a beaten dog with my
tail between my legs is smothering. I am not Sirius Black, and I do not do
imitations. I will not return—even if the idea of going any farther makes me
sick to my stomach and weary to my bones. Too weary.
It occurs to me almost vaguely that I should probably not be sitting here like
this. After all, Father is not above releasing one of his ‘pets’ to patrol the
grounds. My pocket watch chimes softly inside my robes, letting me know that
somehow it’s already 2 o’clock and the last thing I can think of before I drift
off to sleep is a disbelieving pair of hurt green eyes.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Narcissa knelt before the Dark Lord’s dais, pale and shaken. A well-timed
Crucio had caused her normally impeccable hair to fall free of its delicate
jeweled bindings and it flowed down her back to her waist. The Curse had also
added a flush of red to her pale cheeks and unshed tears magnified her blue
eyes. The other Death Eaters—so rarely in the presence of Lucius’s beloved wife
without the wildly jealous Malfoy patriarch—circled her like jackals. She
shuddered in fear and found herself desperately wishing her husband was here.
Was this really what he was forced to endure every meeting? How could he bear
it?
“Lady Narcisssa . . .”
The Malfoy matriarch suppressed another shudder and tried to pass the tremor in
her limbs off as the after-affects of the Unforgivable. If Lucius had endured
all of this for years, she could stand a few more months. By then, hopefully
Draco will have made sufficient progress with Potter that she could finally
begin to formally pull away from Voldemort. By then, hopefully, she could get
Lucius the help he needed.
Right now, they were so deeply entangled in both the Ministry and the Death
Eaters that she didn’t dare bring a Healer in to see her husband. Lucius was
beginning to deteriorate too rapidly, and there was little she could do. If
Voldemort discovered the true severity of her husband’s condition, he would
order the man executed to ensure that Lucius didn’t accidentally reveal the
Dark Lord’s secrets. If the Ministry discovered Lucius’s condition, they would
put him in St. Mungo’s, where the Dark Lord would no doubt have him killed. No
matter what happened, Lucius was in danger. They needed an alliance with Potter
soon.
“Lady Narcisssssa . . .” The Dark Lord repeated. His elongated fingers drummed
in a slow, unhappy cadence in the wooden arm of his chair. “Have you understood
me?”
The woman nodded jerkily. “I will bear the Glass to Hogwarts in Nott’s stead.”
“And your impetuoussss young Dragon, my lady?” The mocking curl he put into her
faux title made her skin crawl.
The Black family was related—very, very, very distantly—to the Royal Family
through a squib cousin who had married into the family that would become the
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha House in the seventeenth century, thus giving rise in Pure
Blood circles to the title of Lordship to the Heirs of the House of Black,
regardless of the fact that in the muggle world the connection was unknown. The
Royal Family eventually changed their last name to Windsor during the muggle
Great War for political reasons, but Wizard Family Trees were updated by
magical means, so such paper changes in the muggle world did not affect the
Black family and the connection between the two Houses remained.
Lord Regulus and Lady Narcissa . . . They used to have such fun at the balls
when they were younger.
“Draco has not replied to my last letter, but I believe he understands the . .
. importance . . . of his complicity in this event. He will not interfere in
your plans, Master, and will no doubt do all he can to make Potter—”
“He is not to interfere at all!” the serpentine man snarled abruptly. “Too
often these days a Malfoy’s attemptss to ‘help’ have bungled my planss. I will
not allow thisss to continue.” The Dark Lord leaned forward in his chair and
pointed a long, boney finger at her. “Heed my words, Lady Malfoy,
anyone—ssstudent, Death Eater, staff, or ally—who stands in your path is to be
cut down. Whether that is your son, Albus Dumbledore, or Merlin himself. Do you
undersstand me? I will not have my way barred by a sixteen-year-old half-blood,
no matter what the prophecies say. Harry Potter musssst be eliminated!”
Narcissa dropped her head low in acquiescence so that she would not have to
look at the manic gleam in the eyes of her husband’s Master.
“Avery! Goyle! Crabbe and Jassperssstone!”
The four Death Eaters emerged and knelt before Voldemort beside Narcissa as he
called them out.
The Dark Lord settled back in his seat and regarded the five of them with
narrowly slitted red eyes. He lazily waved his hand in the air with a slow,
caressing motion and the mirror most of those gathered had helped mend weeks
before slowly rose up from the floor behind him and floated forward. A heavy
black velvet cloth hid the shimmering surface from view. “You will accompany
our dear Lady here to bear the mirror to Hogwartssss. I need not tell you not
to break it or look at the glass. As thisss is a magical mirror, it cannot be
shrunken or taken by way of Apparitttion. A portkey will deliver you to the
edge of Hogsmead and you are to travel through the to deliver the Glassss to
young Micah. He will be waiting at the southern edge of the Wardss to carry it
forth. Severusssss knows nothing of this operation, and should he find out, I
will know that you have failed. The successss of this plan depends on your
ability to be . . . covert.” His thin lips stretched slowly into a macabre
smirk that revealed far more teeth than a human being should rightly have.
Narcissa dropped her gaze again. “It would be most . . . unwissssse to fail me,
my little serpents.”
The five all nodded their heads in understanding. Far too much time, energy,
and planning had gone into this to fail now, and—however much Narcissa desired
to be free of the snare in which her husband had entrapped them—she knew that
to fail the Dark Lord in this would surely mean her death. She would bear the
mirror to Hogwarts if it was the last thing she ever did. This way, at least,
she might try and regain her family’s position in Voldemort’s admittedly meager
good graces and buy enough time for Draco to secure them a new alliance.
Still, as she rose and place the porcelain white mask of a Death Eater over her
pale features for the first time in her life, she could not help but feel as
though she were in over her head.
As though she were suffocating.
A murmured spell from Lord Voldemort changed her silk azure dress robes into
the plain black robes of a Death Eater and Jasperstone took the lead, a
fragment of a broken plate in his left hand acting as their portkey. Narcissa,
Goyle, Crabbe, and Avery all removed their wands and carefully took the Glass
from Voldemort with whispered Wingardium Leviosas.
“Be gone and make haste,” Voldemort hissed, sending them on their way.
The other Death Eaters closed ranks behind them as they walked out of the once
magnificent ballroom at a careful, measured pace to avoid jostling or shifting
their burden unnecessarily. Walking in front, Jasperstone paused and turned to
look over his shoulder at Narcissa. His milky green left eye chilled her as the
blind orb came to focus on her. It looked eerie and unnatural next to the pale
jade of his right eye.
“Don’t worry,” he told her in a deep, mocking voice, only slightly muffled by
his mask. “Micah will not fail our Lord.” The implied slight against Draco did
not go unnoticed and the Malfoy matriarch’s blue eyes flashed like broken ice
behind her mask.
Then she simply sighed wearily. The heavy mask reflected the warm, moist air
that could not escape through the narrow mouth slit back at her face. A twinge
between her shoulder blades made her back itch. The heavy doors to Riddle Manor
swung open before them and, as they stepped out, she had to avert her gaze from
the western sky. The sun was barely beginning to sink and they were set to meet
Jasperstone’s son at the edge of the Wards at 10:00. They had roughly 4 hours
until the meeting time. It was going to be a long evening.
Soon, the woman promised herself. A damp, chill wind blew. Soon this will all
be over. Soon my family will be safe . . . I only need to buy a bit more time.
She only hoped that Draco understood that he had to keep Potter away from this
Glass, whatever the cost . . . And that—for just once in his life—he was wise
enough to simply do as he was told and stay safely in the castle this night.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
I awake near seven o’clock with another half hour of walking before me. The
idea that I could have easily been killed rather horribly in my sleep does not
disturb me nearly as much as it probably should. I spare a moment to wonder if
he would mourn me before pushing myself to my feet in disgust.
Get the fuck out of my head, Harry Potter.
If I dreamed I can’t remember it, and I try to distract myself with the shadows
cast by the fading twilight as I walk. A chill settled on me and there is a
curious ache in my joints that I cannot place. I suppose that’s what I get for
falling asleep outside in November.
As a child, I used to roam these woods for hours in search of herbs and
mushrooms to use in potions. I slept outside more than I slept inside during
the warmer months. Outside, at least I didn’t have to be near my parents. My
mother may have been a religious zealot, but she was easier to bear than my
father. She, at least, did what she did out of love—even if she did love
penance more than me. My father, on the other hand, was and is not capable of
such emotion. He knows only jealousy and, even if he had the whole world at his
feet, would still find something lacking.
And I am the product of this union.
The gables of the manor do not rise up against the horizon soon enough for me
and the waning moon does not provide as much light as I would have liked for
this journey. The wind blows cold, making me grateful now for my heavier robes
and I finally come to a halt at the end of the road. A large iron-wrought gate
topped off with a sinuous and archaic looking ‘S’ swings open with a groan of
protest.
I step through slowly and something in my gut lurches.
The manor is a large, dark place. Five gables—one at each cardinal point of the
house and the fifth dead in the building’s center—rise two stories higher than
the three visible stories, so tall they are almost like towers. The roof of the
North Gable is missing entirely and it looks as though it was ravaged by an
explosion of Longbottom proportions. The windows gape down at me, dead eyes
that do not blink, and several shingles litter the ground. The lawn, its length
carefully maintained by magical means, looks brittle and yellow. Unwelcoming.
I take in the subtle changes and the things that have remained the same with a
blank gaze. My steps are heavy as I resume my pace, uneager to continue with
this escapade. I do not know what I expected, but somehow this slow internal
decay takes me off guard. This place was once my home.
The thought makes something throb deep inside me. This place was once the only
world I knew, and now I would rather be any place on earth more than here.
Except, perhaps for Hogwarts. Hogwarts was once my home, too. Now every time I
look at the place all I can see is a pair of green eyes and a little boy for
whom I’d give ten years of my life to fuck senseless.
Home is where the heart is, I suppose.
The massive front doors swing open before I can touch them, much as they always
have, and I walk through them into the foyer, much as I always have. Twenty
years . . . The last time I left this place, I was merely a murderer. Now I’m a
murderer, Death Eater, spy, and pedophile. Father must be so disappointed in
me. The more things change . . .
I should return to Hogwarts. The thought makes the damaged muscle in my left
hand spasm.
There is no tired-looking House Elf to greet me today. No soft padded steps of
a kneazle or scrape of crup claws (or anything else’s claws) on the ancient,
polished hardwood floors. I find myself standing in the foyer, feeling loose
and disorganized, and straining to hear the whisper of faint Latin singing
coming from upstairs. I hear it, a distant long-gone thing. But the voice is
only in my memory: the shadowy strains of a woman with big blue-green eyes and
oily black hair named Sourdine Gabriella Snape.
“Now kneel on the floor and press your palms together, angelo. Yes, just like
that. Now bring them up to your face and repeat after Momma. ‘Confiteor Deo
omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato
Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi
Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem
Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum,
omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.’”
My lips move in time with the memory. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper
Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos
Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum
Deum Nostrum.”
All is silent.
I look around, taking in the heavily carved wooden panels, the tall grandfather
clock directly in front of the door, the expensive rugs tossed about at even,
perfectly planned intervals, all spotless and soft as new. I used to lie on
those rugs for hours, staring at the ceiling, making potions in my head, and
waiting for father to allow me into the study to speak with him.
“That boy needs to learn patience! I’ll not have you raising that miserable
little wretch up to be some spoiled milksop, Sourdine—it’s bad enough that you
fill his head up with all that outdated muggle gibberish!”
I take another step into the manor and a floorboard creaks beneath me in
accusation.
“Boy!”
“Boy!”
I flinch reflexively.
“What the hell are you mincing about out there for? Get in here!”
“Did I call you here, boy?! Go to your room and I don’t want to here a peep
from you until you’re summoned!”
I scowl, angry with myself. Fear of a memory . . . This is ridiculous. I am ten
times the wizard Aigris Désunis Snape is or ever was. I have more power in my
pinky than that half-squib has in his whole body and here I am, cowering
outside his door like a child. I fix my mouth in a firm sneer and turn to the
closed double doors of the study to my right. The floor boards squeal as I
stride over them, just as they did twenty years ago—just as he spelled them to
do. The doors shudder open reluctantly as I approach and I give the corner of
the left one a discreet, spiteful kick as I pass it. They boom shut behind me
in a futile attempt to catch my robes. Another thing that remains the same.
It’s actually a small room, plain and rectangular, with only one large window.
When the sun sets, I recall, the red light pours in and catches the dust motes
in the air, making the room look awash in flame. It’s a pity I missed it. The
walls are still paneled with plain, unadorned redwood and a plush green carpet
is still in the center of the floor. Bookshelves still line the walls, bulging
with their ancient tomes and scrolls, overflowing with parchments, and the
occasional odd and end. Directly in front of me, the enormous fireplace, large
enough for a man to stand in comfortably, is still cold and empty and the two
leather chairs with their small round table between them still bear their
familiar coating of dust, now as thick as it ever was.
My mother’s portrait is still above the hearth as well. A layer of dust also
covers that; Father had the spell on it overlaid, freezing her image in an
eternally sorrowful position, legs tucked under her in her seat on the crimson,
high backed chaise, long, silver-streaked hair tumbling over her shoulders as
she buries her head in her hands. She was no doubt pleading with him not to
freeze her portrait at the moment the spell was cast. I take in the folds and
wrinkles in her elegant dress with a mixture of anger and scorn. Even in her
death, he tortures her. And even in her death, she meekly accepts it as some
sort of righteous penance. Stupid woman.
I look away, feeling ill. To my right there is nothing but another wall of
heavily laden bookshelves, but to my left, farther up the length of the room
and set directly in front of the window, is my father’s desk. It is an old
thing, small in comparison to my large, oaken desk at Hogwarts, but
immaculately polished. There are piles of books on the floor around it and
piles of papers and nasty-looking knickknacks piled in a chaotic jumble on the
surface. A leather chair from the set in front of the fireplace is set at a
diagonal from the corner of the desk, closest to the wall across from the
fireplace. There is no dust on this seat, as it is the only seat in the study
that the meager visitors to this room are permitted to use. My father’s chair,
the fourth in the set, is behind the desk and I blink when I see him there
hunched over a bit of parchment.
The patriarch of my House has not aged well at all. He looks less like a man
and more like a wisp of cracked, poorly dried animal hide. His fingers have
become great, long, spindly things, like busy, writhing spiders attached to his
wrists. Most of his hair has fallen out and what little remains has become limp
and thin, a fine sheen of white through which the smooth, yellowed and blue-
veined flesh of his skull shines in the flickering candlelight. He looks up at
me, black eyes cavernous and dull, and his wet, blackish lips twist
unpleasantly, reminding me of worms. He waves a skeletal arm at the chair
indicating that I should sit, and I comply automatically, watching that spidery
hand twitch through the air warily.
As I come closer, I can see that he’s shrunken. Once tall and muscular, his
frame is now little more than a withered bit of old meat clinging to a pile of
bones. He looks emaciated and almost comically scarecrow-ish beneath the heavy
drapery of his robes. I seat myself gingerly in the chair and watch him bend
over his bit of parchment. His nose, a nose which I unfortunately inherited, is
still the most prominent thing on his face. If anything, it seems to have
actually grown, though that could be the effect of his skin shrinking into fine
folds and clinging to his skull. One of those large, arachnid hands scrawls
something on the bit of paper with a battered quill and it suddenly strikes me
how very long his nails are. I shudder and allow my gaze to wander to the
window as it always had when I was younger.
I note with vague apprehension that the enormous spider web in the left corner
of the ceiling still remains. It actually seems to have expanded, and is at
least a good foot wider than it was before. The wreck of human being across
from me finally places down his quill as I search for the freakishly large
specimen of Tegenaria agrestis that has seemingly occupied that web since
before I was born. I’ve always suspected that my father spelled that creature
to be enormous and long lived. No Hobo Spider is supposed to be the size of a
man’s head.
“So you’re alive,” he wheezes nastily at me in greeting. His voice is breathy,
as though he can’t quite get enough air. “And late nonetheless.” He coughs
then, a wet, painful noise, as though the words had cost him something vital.
My gaze slides back to him and I lazily flick a piece of hair out of my eyes.
“Apparently.” I deliberately drawl the word and watch my tone work over him
like iodine in an open wound.
He snorts, an unpleasantly visceral noise. “Yes, well, if wishes were wings and
all.” His eyes rake over me and he makes another loose hacking noise behind his
hand in obvious disapproval. “This is the product of a teacher’s wage?” he
sneers. “I had hoped that you’d be dead by now. Either Dumbledore or the Dark
Lord has no doubt had cause to kill you a dozen times.”
Something large, multi-pedal, and very much alive chooses that exact moment to
skitter across his desk with a great deal of clicking noises. I watch in
fascination as the thing sends a pile of books tumbling to the floor and
several pieces of parchment flying into the air. My father emits a shrill
shriek of victory, seizes a sharp letter opener from Merlin only knows where,
and stabs the thing with a swift, violent movement. A sudden jet emerald fluid
shoots up into the air. He does not seem to notice when it splatters all over
him and his papers. He pulls the knife out of the pile of papers he’s stabbed
and holds it up, tip in the air. Speared along side a piece of green stained
parchment is a something resembling a hairy, purple ball, roughly the size of
my fist, with six spindly, claw-tipped legs projecting out of it. The legs
twitch and spasm, claws working uselessly at the air, and an upside down pair
of alarmingly human eyes look at me in terror.
The old man waves the dying creature in my direction. “Yet another failure,” he
rasps. The thing is emitting a low-pitch scream. My father smiles at me, a
cadaverous expression, and flicks the letter opener to his left, sending the
creature sailing off the blade. “At least it has the decency to die properly.”
The thing hits the paneling of a bookshelf with a sickening crack, shrieks
horribly, and lands on the floor with a wet noise. I look at it for a moment in
disinterest before turning back to the man in front of me.
My father was . . . is a Pariomagus—one who uses magic, potions, and breeding
to create new species out of old ones. It’s rather like alchemy using living
creatures. The practice has been illegal since 1156—two years after the
Dementor Wars—and the penalty is an automatic life in Azkaban, but he saw
little reason to allow that to deter him. He always used to threaten my mother
that he would use me in one of his projects if she stepped out of line. In
retaliation, she took a potion that rendered her infertile, thus insuring that
I would remain his only legitimate offspring.
Aigris Désunis Snape never cared for his family, neither me nor my mother. His
interest in her extended to her faithfulness, public appearance, and ability to
bear him suitable sons and fodder for his experiments—a plan that went terribly
wrong after she became barren—and his concern for me was only to see that I was
suitable heir. By the age of two, it was clear that I would not be, so he began
planning my disposal. The first order of business was to impregnate my mother
again, but by then she had taken her own measures. When it became clear that I
was to be his only legitimate heir (my parents’ marriage contract forbid
remarriage for either party regardless of the circumstances), he ceased to show
any real interest in me at all, beyond using me as leverage against my mother.
Children are precious in Wizarding families—our numbers are small enough as it
is—and to intentionally harm a child is an offense worse than the use of an
Unforgivable. He therefore never physically abused me, but he certainly never
loved me. Even his marriage to my mother was more like some sort of perverse
revenge against her for ruining her womb rather than a real relationship. After
my mother killed herself, House Elves and some of the tamer of my father’s
creations whom I stole away from him were my only companions.
My eyes flicker back to the ceiling—there’s something profoundly disconcerting
about looking at my father—and the slow glide of a hairy arachnid leg, thick as
a human finger and far too long, catches my attention, drawing it back to the
spider web. Father ignores me in favor of his piles of parchments once more,
and I can feel my hand twitch towards my wand. The old man’s breath rattles
wetly in and out of his lungs, as though something were loose and broken inside
him.
Exsanguis, I imagine saying. And that enormous spider would twitch and spasm
and crumple in the way that spiders in pain always do as it literally sweated
blood through its hair follicles (because spiders do not have pores like
humans). And it would bleed itself to an anguished and ignominious death. I
imagine the look on my father’s face as I kill his pet. I imagine that the
spider is his hands.
Or better yet: Eptum. Messy. And then the study would be littered small bits of
bone and flesh and red human blood would mingle in with that of the dead purple
creature and he would scream and scream and scream . . . I look away and force
myself to loosen my grip on my wand. My left hand spasms convulsively.
“Did you call me here for a reason?”
The old man jumps and his head snaps up, staring at me in bewilderment, as
though he’d forgotten I was here. The motion does not surprise me; he often
forgot about me when I was younger. I think he prefers it that way, really.
He glares at me for a moment, thick lips twisting like night crawlers on wet
pavement, before they settle into a sneer. He throws his quill down again and
pulls back into his seat.
“Ungrateful little bastard,” those shiny lips snarl. I feel nauseous and look
back up to his eyes. He turns away, apparently searching for something now.
Spindly finger jerk and twitch as he begins to rummage through the piles of
papers on his desk.
“You’re teaching Harry Potter now?” My eyes narrow at the sudden change of
subject, but he continues, apparently needing no input from me. “Hmph. If I was
you, I’d have poisoned the little mudblood snot by now. Wasting your time.
Wasting your life! And you are the fruit of my seed!” A pile of papers topples
over and he swipes a hand at me through the air as though dismissing the topic
of my worthlessness once again. “Bastards and whores’ sons, the whole Potter
line.”
Something inside me lurches at the idea of him talking about Harry. My Harry.
He has no right—
My hand twitches towards my wand again and I make a fist to suppress the urge.
Avada Kedavra I’d say.
I force my mind back to his rambling.
“Then marrying a muggle born?” He shakes his head and the light shines in a
smooth curve on his skull. “Disgraceful. If Samael Potter had had an ounce of
dignity he’d have killed his son for sullying pure blood. Fucking Potters.
Harry Potter. You mark me; he’s just the same as the lot of them. Bad blood—bad
stock! All of them.”
The man stops his rummaging to glare at me once more. A long finger, more than
slightly reminiscent of that spider leg, points at me accusingly. “Have you
nothing to say to redeem yourself?”
I watch in disgust as a bit of spittle lingers on his lower lip before falling
onto his chin. I raise my eyes to meet his again and feel a powerful swelling
of loathing for this man. It occurs to me that people like this—small, weak,
petty, and vile—probably say Harry Potter’s name everyday. But that does not
mean that I have to like it.
Father huffs irritably at his failure to get a rise out of me and I wonder
where the massive, dominating man from my childhood went. He changed after
Mother died. He became silent, less . . . overwhelming. More a flash fire than
a hurricane. I think he was lost after she died. However much he hated her, she
gave him a focus point—a purpose. Now he is nothing more than a wispy bit of
flesh trapped behind a desk larger and more impressive than him and surrounded
by his continual failures. He turns back to his papers and resumes rummaging
about.
I look away, wishing I was elsewhere, but knowing I have nowhere else to be. I
should return to Hogwarts. I find I have nothing to say to this man. There once
was a time when I would have gladly sacrificed one of my arms for a kind word
from my father, a hint of regard . . . A scrap of any acknowledgement was once
more precious to me than ambrosia. And now . . .
Now I wish this man would have simply died and left me in peace, such as my
life is. I hold no feelings or regard for my father now beyond a low, throbbing
resentment—a contempt that I cannot place or describe. It is worse than hatred,
I think. He is not worth my hatred and I wonder that I ever believed he was.
Abruptly, his rummaging ceases and Father looks up at me, his face oddly devoid
of emotion. “I am dying, Severus.”
He says this as though I should have some sort of reaction. As though I should
care.
Perhaps he is the one who needs to redeem himself. But I can and will not offer
him any sort of absolution.
I tilt my head very slightly to the side. “Yes. You are.”
“I am dying,” he repeats emphatically, attempting to impress his urgency on me
with a slight lifting of his hands. “And you are all I have to show for my
life.”
I press my thin lips into a narrow line. “What do you want of me then? I have
nothing to offer you.”
My father looks at me, his expressionless features looking waxy and artificial
in the backlight of the slowly rising moon. “You are a rotten child, Severus.
And the fault is my own.”
The statement is so quiet, and his raspy, pained voice is so still, that for a
moment I don’t even register the words.
“What?”
“I never wanted children,” the old man bites out, looking personally affronted.
He glares at me as though I was to blame. “I never wanted a wife.” The word is
filled with venom. “I never wanted you and if I’d had my way, I’d have used you
in an experiment long ago. But I needed a bloody heir—someone to leave my vast
fortune” (here he made an all-encompassing gesture to the room) “to. And
instead I got you. You—a poisonous, venomous worthless little shit. And you are
all I have to show for my life’s work.” He sneered, but this time the
expression is directed more towards himself, I think, than me.
I stare at him for a moment and feel something heavy and hot churn restlessly
in my stomach. I felt like this the first time I cast Avada Kedavra—lightheaded
and too heavy all at once. It was not disgust with myself for casting the
Curse; it was empowerment from knowing that I could cast the Curse. My lips
twist into a sneer that he was once capable of and I lean back into the
uncomfortable, squeaky leather with a sneer.
“You are dying—” something flickers in his eyes as I say this, but he remains
silent, “—and you have called me here to pat yourself on the back? Say that you
did all you could? Claim it was ‘bad stock?’”
His too-large Adam’s apple bobs heavily as he swallows, but he says nothing.
My eyes wander towards the spider web on the ceiling again. The creature is
half out of the grey mass of webbing and watching me now—front four legs
resting lightly on the walls and eight black marble-sized eyes looking down at
me. I watch it with indifference. When I was a child and the spider was
slightly smaller, it bit me once. My father laughed as my arm swelled too big
for the string bracelet my mother had woven for me and I screamed so loudly
that the House Elves in the kitchen dropped the dishes. Mother came in and
rescued me, sweeping me up in her arms while father simply watched and laughed.
I was perhaps four or five at the time, and it was the day I truly began to
hate my father. But a child’s hatred is a fast, transient thing. Now, I find
nothing inside me for this man, not even pity.
He wants me to repent—to beg forgiveness for my failings and transgressions and
claim that everything that has happened was my fault. This . . . man . . .
wants to die with a clean conscience.
There is no such thing as a clean conscience. Not in a world with Dark Lords,
and Dumbledores, and green eyes, and Original Sin.
And I do not beg.
So I sneer at him, looking at him with a contempt that only a Death Eater could
bring to bear. “You are a fool.” My voice sounds curiously hollow in the over-
crowded room. “Why have you really called me here? To ask for my ‘absolution?’
I have none to give you, Aigris Snape. You never cared for anything but
yourself, both in your life, and now in your death. You lacked the resolve to
dominate any forum or cause or excel at any task and so you have no choice but
to surround yourself with your failures. You are correct—you are dying, Father.
And I am all you have to show for it. If you need absolution, then you have no
one to blame but yourself. Do not, however think that you have made me who I
am; you have not. In fact, you disinterest in me has determined that you have
had no bearing on my life whatsoever. You should be proud of that, at least;
you have not raised a Death Eater.”
His black eyes fix on me for a moment and something like understanding passes
through them. Understanding and hatred. I have nothing to offer him and he
knows it. The only thing he hates more than me is the idea of his elder sister
in France inheriting the estate; that is the reason he called me here. I settle
back in my chair, oddly relaxed in this room I used to hate so.
I match his sneer with my own. This man has no more power over me.
He hunches over slightly and coughs into his hand again. When he looks up at
me, I can see that his palm is stained with blood. “I truly hate you, Severus.
The very broken, sniveling image of your mother.”
He coughs again painfully and I tilt my head to the side. He meant it when he
said he was dying. He meant that he was dying right now. He waited until the
last possible moment to get these affairs in order. I gingerly reach out and
pluck the sheaf of inheritance scrolls off his desk and remove the red ink
quill I always carry to grade papers in my spare time. I sign each of the
papers in turn in a smooth, easy hand. “And you, Father, are a coward.”
Out in the hallway, the old grandfather clock chimes eight times as I work over
the papers and father’s wet, strained breathing becomes more and more labored.
I used to hate that clock as a child, it only clicked out more and more hours
of my life—my mother’s life—under the control of this man. Now, I find I do not
mind its rusted hourly cries nearly so much.
Tonight, they are not meant for me.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Draco popped open his pocket watch and stared down at the ornately decorated
face. The silver moon that currently occupied the foreground of the expensive
heirloom grinned at him and winked with twinkling blue eyes that reminded him
eerily of Dumbledore. The short minute hand ticked passed the four. It was nine
twenty-one now. Granger and the Weasel had been gone for just over fifteen
minutes and Potter still hadn’t emerged. The Dumbledore blue eyes of the Man in
the Moon twinkled at him once more, mimicking the stars behind him, and Draco
slammed the watch shut with unnecessary violence.
His mother had sent him a letter with important information about Voldemort’s
latest plans to eliminate Potter and, though she’d told him—ordered him,
even—to stay well and away from the Wards tonight, he had no intention of
obeying her. This was a golden opportunity—a once in a lifetime moment. He’d be
a fool if he didn’t take the chance to prove himself to Potter now. That was
what that little display on the Pitch was about, no doubt. Potter wanted proof
of Draco’s sincerity, and Draco’s inability to say the name had undermined his
overtures. It was a surprisingly insightful move for the harebrained Gryffindor
to make; Potter had always struck him as the sort who leapt first and didn’t
take the time to look until he was halfway down the cliff face.
He had imagined that it would be a great deal easier to forge an alliance with
the other boy and had been sorely disappointed when Potter had proven him
wrong. But he was running out of time, and none of his other choices were
favorable. Snape, he knew now, was a dead end. There was no one else he could
think of with both the power, authority, and potential motive to Obliviate him,
but—at least, until he knew what exactly the greasy old bat had blocked from
his mind—there was nothing he could do.
Stormy silver eyes narrowed as the blond considered his Head of House. The
moment he figured out what exactly Snape had risked so much to hide, he’d have
the bastard’s arse in a sling. And if he had his alliance by then, Potter would
no doubt be more than happy to join him—their enmity was, after all, legendary.
Particularly after last week. Even without dear St. Potter’s help, tampering
with a person’s memory was illegal. Snape would be sacked for sure.
But first he had to work on Potter, then everything else would fall into line.
And he would make damn sure that Snape paid for interfering in Malfoy affairs.
One of the Library’s tall double doors creaked open warily and a pale face
capped by messy black hair peered out into the corridor cautiously. Draco
pulled back into the shadows, more put of reflex than anything else. Apparently
confident that he was alone, Potter slipped out of the Library with practiced
ease and set off towards the master stair room with quick, surprisingly light
steps. As the smaller teen passed Draco’s alcove, a pale hand snaked out of the
shadows and grabbed him by the wrist. To his credit, Potter did not cry out, or
even stiffen; instead, the Gryffindor relaxed and used the pulling motion to
spin ‘round to face his captor, wand out faster than Draco would have believed
possible.
The blond took a quick step back and hit the wall behind him, eyes wide.
“Potter, it’s me!”
The length of holly pointing at his forehead didn’t shift an inch and Draco
could barely resist crossing his eyes to stare at the tip.
Harry pulled his wrist out of Draco’s grip and glared hatefully at his
Slytherin classmate. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“The same thing I wanted last weekend,” the boy hissed in obvious agitation.
“Now put that damn thing away before you take my eye out or something!”
The small mouth quirked into an eerie smirk that set Draco’s skin crawling, but
after a moment’s hesitation the wand was lowered. Harry took a step way from
the blond and ran a hand back through his hair, only succeeding in mussing it
further. “Believe me, ferret, an eye should be the least thing you’re worried
about me taking.”
Draco scowled and rose to his full height, pleased to see that he still had an
inch or two on the relatively diminutive Potter Heir. “I was sincere in my
previous advances,” the proud young man explained, graciously ignoring the
threat to his person. “I truly want an alliance with you.”
“Go to Dumbledore then, and leave me in peace,” the other boy snapped. “I want
nothing to do with you or your smarmy family, Malfoy. Get that through your
thick head. You’ve been nothing but trouble to me since the day we met in Madam
Malkin’s.”
He turned to leave, but Draco grabbed his arm again and spun him ‘round. “Do
you think I’m stupid, Potter?” he snarled, barely remembering to keep his voice
low. “Dumbledore is a manipulator on par with the Dark Lord himself! I will not
allow myself or my family to be used any more than necessary. You of all people
should understand that.”
The other boy only glared, but could apparently not offer a retort to that.
“Now listen,” Draco continued, pressing his momentary advantage. “I have
received a communiqué from my mother warning me that the Dark Lord is sending
something to Hogwarts tonight—something he will use to stop you. She told me to
steer clear of it—to stay inside tonight and do nothing. I have the letter here
in my pocket if you do not believe me.” He pressed the palm of his right hand
over his House badge, behind which, Harry knew, all Hogwarts’ robes had a
pocket mended on the inside.
He pulled his arm away from Malfoy again. “I believe you. About the letter, at
least. So why aren’t you taking her advice and hiding under a rock like a good
little viper?” he sneered.
Draco blinked, startled by the venom in his voice. “Because there is a
Gryffindor involved in the plot. There is a ‘viper,’” he threw the word back at
him, “in Gryffindor House.”
Harry stiffened and he drew in a sharp breath, but he said nothing.
“This is your proof, Potter,” the blond said. He made no effort to conceal his
bitterness. “I will give you a traitor, and you will help me. I do not like
you,” he added, frustrated by his own bluntness. “I do not want some grand and
sweeping friendship like you have with the Weasel and the Mudblood. I will not
be your ‘mate’ or pal around with you at Hogsmeade, and we will not exchange
letters or Quidditch cloaks. I only want to spare my family any more torture at
the hands of Our Lord.”
‘Our Lord’ was the only thing Harry had ever heard Draco say with more contempt
and anger than he put into the word ‘Potter.’ It wasn’t said—it was spat out
like a vile-tasting potion. The Gryffindor Seeker could almost feel it splash
against his skin, burning like acid.
Green eyes narrowed. “Who is it? The traitor?”
“I don’t know. Mother only said that the Dark Lord had spoken several times of
an informant in your House. She said that he’s been using the informant to
watch you all term.”
“So what makes you think that this mystery person will be down there?” Harry
snapped.
“One of my Housemates and this person cut a hole in the Wards—”
“Hogwarts’ Wards are impenetrable.”
“Nothing is impenetrable, Potter!” Draco snarled, eyes darting to the shadowed
hall to makes sure they were still alone. “Think! What was Crouch always
spouting: ‘Constant vigilance?’ Merlin’s blood, what do you think he was
talking about? Never let your guard down—ever! Now, a Seventh Year and this
informant punctured the Wards to smuggle something in. A mirror of some sort.
If it was you—if you had been the one to go through all the trouble of piercing
the Wards—wouldn’t you want to see what it was all for? Wouldn’t you want to
make sure that everything went right. You’re a Gryffindor. What would you do?”
Harry’s eyes darkened. “I’d tag along, whether I was invited or not.”
“So what do you think our informant’s doing right now? And even if they’re
not,” the taller teen pressed, “I’m offering you Death Eaters, Potter. And a
Slytherin to boot.”
The jagged scar on Harry’s forehead wrinkled and deepened as a frown contorted
his brow in thought. “When is this meeting again, Malfoy?”
Draco smirked, the expression disturbingly reminiscent of Lucius. He reached in
his robes and removed his pocket watch, flipping it open with an easy one-
handed motion. The minute hand slid onto the nine with a soft click. His eyes
flickered back to Potter’s. “Fifteen minutes from now.”
A muscle in the other boy’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. “Where?”
“The South field. On the far end of the Wards near the Forbidden Forrest.”
Harry grabbed the rival Seeker’s wrist and spun around sharply, tugging the
Malfoy heir after him. “Come on.”
“Wait! We can’t just go barging in like this. Don’t you have that cloak or
something that—”
The brunet’s grip tightened painfully. “It was confiscated.” He looked back at
the other boy as he dragged him down the hallway. “There is such a thing as
stealth, Malfoy. Use it.”
“Then let me go, so I can use it! It won’t do either of us any good if Filch
and his fleabag catch us.”
Harry observed the struggling blond for a moment before releasing him with a
dark frown. “If you’re having me on, Malfoy, or trying to lure me into some
sort of trap, so help me—”
“Trust me, Potter,” Draco snapped haughtily as he fixed the wrinkled cuff of
his robe. “I’m the one with everything to lose here.”
Harry continued scowling, but said nothing and simply hurried after his
yearmate.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
It is just after nine o’clock before I finish all the paperwork set before me.
All the while, my father sits across his desk and glares at me from amongst his
towers of junk. We do not speak.
My discomfort has moved beyond anything that I can pinpoint about being in this
house. It is a lingering sense of unease. The feeling one gets from knowing a
Grim is near, but not being able to see it. There is a curious sensation
hovering around my Dark Mark—not pain, but nothing comforting either. I regret
leaving Hogwarts today and find myself willing the time to pass more quickly so
I can leave this wretched place, though some strange reluctance keeps me in my
seat.
I should return to Hogwarts. There is a greater urgency to the thought than
there was an hour ago. Or even a moment ago. I should return.
I have the strangest idea that Harry Potter is going to die without me there
and I want to be there. I don’t want him to die thinking I hate him.
Congratulations, Albus; you’ve turned me into a hypochondriac.
In the corner there is a curious clicking noise—my father’s pet reminding me of
its presence. My hand twitches all too readily towards my wand and I firmly
grip the arm of the chair and resolve to keep my mind on the accords before me.
I should return to Hogwarts.
After the clock has struck nine times and the candle flames have been forced to
leap higher than natural to enhance the light, I stack the scrolls together and
then snap them shut before sliding the documents back into their casing. He
watches me resentfully as I hand him the case. I say nothing and he growls,
choking off into another painful bout of coughing, before rummaging through the
mess on his desk once more. No doubt looking for the Snape Family Seal so that
he can send the documents to Gringotts where they belong.
“You’ve been using yourself in your experiments, haven’t you?”
He looks up at me sharply before looking away again, still searching. “What is
it to you?” he growls, thick lips twitching heavily.
My eyes narrow and I find that I have no way to answer the question. Simple
curiosity, I suppose. My father is barely seventy—a ridiculously young age for
a wizard to die. But what other explanation can account for his current
condition and vulgar appearance? There’s something deeply satisfying to know
that the only thing he ever cared for in his life—his work—is the cause of his
painful decay. Poetic justice, really.
How desperately he must have scrambled to reverse the damage to his body when
he realized what was happening to him . . . And how bitterly disappointed he
must have been to know that he failed. As usual. No wonder he waited until the
last minute to call me here. He must have prayed for a miracle. That he
received none is more gratifying than any punishment I ever imagined for him as
a child. I take in his fragile and emaciated frame and imagine him writhing
under my wand beneath the Cruciatus Curse, screaming out his last breath. I
take less satisfaction in the image than I normally would have. What would be
the point? He is already dead.
Really, does it matter to me at all what he’s been doing? I merely want the
documents sent so that I can leave this place and be done with him. My quarters
are still not fully restored after last weekend’s . . . unpleasantness . . .
and tomorrow I am to resume Occlumency with the boy once more.
I shudder at the thought. Quick and painful, that is how it will be. A rush
into his mind past whatever flimsy barriers Albus has taught him to construct,
and he will be more than happy to flee my office and leave me in peace. Just
like last year. Just like things are supposed to be. He will remember what I am
and how much he hates me and that I really mean nothing to him beyond the
irritation of a biting fly, and he will leave. There is a sudden constriction
in my chest, as though a great hand is pressing down on me, stifling my
breathing, and I focus on my father’s spidery fingers.
He will leave me.
Everything will be as it should be then. Before evenings by the lake, midnight
teas, flattened, hard curves that fit into the palm of my hand, kisses that
were not mine to take, and manipulative old men who foster monstrosities.
And I—fool that I am—desperately wish that I didn’t have to turn back the
clock. Wish for something that I cannot have.
What has this boy done to me?
Bile rises in my throat and I look away from those awful hands, an
unaccountable ache settling in the crook of my left arm like a painful rebuke.
How could I have forgotten this—what I am?
The dread rises full force, and it is an effort not to surge to my feet and
leave this place. The walls are too close and too crowded and I just know that
that old spider is in its hole cleaning its fangs.
No.
Don’t think of that.
Don’t think of it. Think of . . . think of . . . Green Eyes. And small,
reddened hands. A bitten lip and a mouth that tastes like butterscotch. Heat
and warmth.
I should not be here. I should return to Hogwarts. I clutch my arm tighter.
Black eyes pierce me from across the desk and Father waves a bar of sealing wax
towards me to get my attention. “What are you looking all moony about?” he
rasps.
I stared at him fixedly, a slow sneer twisting my lips, and allow the silence
to be my answer. Trembling, his left hand plucks a lit candle off the corner of
his desk and holds it over the scroll sheath. His right hand, also palsied,
holds the bar of wax over the flame and the emerald green magical sealant melts
and drips with runny thickness onto the casing. He moves with surprising
agility then, dropping the still-soft wax and impressing the Snape Family Seal
to the cooling sealant, leaving behind the neatly cut lines of the Uroboros,
book, and rapiers. I look away as he casts a few simple binding charms on the
bundle, bored with this and irritated by the treacherous nature of my thoughts.
Another twinge goes through my arm, and this time I cannot resist gripping at
the area of irritation: my Dark Mark. I squeeze the flesh hard as the twinge
grows and an unpleasant sense of dread washes over me. This is not a
summons—the feel of that pain is unmistakable. But this is most definitely the
work of my Master’s magic. I squeeze until the bite of my nails presses through
my robes, the discomfort grounding me in the midst of what feel strangely like
panic and leaving the promise of bruises behind.
I look back up to find my father’s yellowed eyes staring at me. No . . .
staring at where I’m clutching my arm. I hesitate for a moment, vacillating
between moving my hand and holding my ground. In the end, I hold my ground and
meet his gaze challengingly. He sneers and tosses the scroll sheath on the
table in front of me.
“Spell it!”
I wait a moment, just long enough to be insolent and let him know that my
actions have little to do with his orders, and then remove my wand to add my
own magical signature to the charms protecting the scrolls. My spells are much
stronger than my father’s and it take me only a moment to add them. He glares
at me hatefully as my magic envelops his, locking the scroll with spells that
he would never be powerful enough to cast.
Truly, sometimes the best revenge really is living well.
With a murmured ‘Windargardium Leveosa,’ I send the scrolls back to him. He
snatches it out of the air with a fierce growl, black lips pulled tight over
yellowed teeth as he snarls.
An owl swoops in then through the open window. Just a plain, ordinary, unedited
owl, not one of my father’s pets. It snatches the scroll from his hand and
wheels around out the window again, as though it knew its fate had it stayed
any longer. This place is surely poison, seeping out of the old man before me
and staining the very ground beneath us. I sit up a bit straighter and cross my
legs, resting my left ankle on my right knee, as though the air around me were
contaminated by him. Perhaps it is. I shift my robes over my raised knee so
that they fall a bit more naturally.
Father watches me with contempt. “Watch it, boy. Your ponce is showing,” he
snaps at me nastily.
My lips twist thinly and I smooth the thick material of my robes again,
purposely transparent as I enjoy the feel of the soft fabric under my fingers.
“Careful, Father.” I smile my own nasty smile. “Your French is showing.”
His French heritage, his mother’s legacy, has always been an intensely sore
point for him, and he forbade me to learn the language as a child. Of course,
that didn’t stop Mother from teaching it to me on the sly—an offense for which
she paid heavily.
He curses and hurls the Seal at me with a hiss that would have done any
parselmouth proud. “Out! Out with you now! Out of my house!”
I stand, slow and unhurried. I will not be intimidated by this man, nor will I
be needlessly panicked over the pain in my arm. Never mind the fact that I
would tear off my skin right now if I thought it could remove the brand’s
burning.
I need to return to Hogwarts. Now.
And yet, I linger.
Why did I come to this place? What does this house mean to me? This man? These
creatures? That frozen painting and the spider in the corner? What does any of
this mean? I should not be here.
It is time to leave.
Father also stands, long thin hands grasping for something else to throw at me.
“Whore’s son!” he screeches. “Out!”
He hobbles around the desk, gripping at the walls and anything else on hand to
get at me, and it is almost comical to see this broken bit of oily, drapery-
clad leather lurching towards me like a drunken marionette. I smoothly glide
back a step and he pushes off the wall with a venomous hiss. He throws the
candle holder at me and I neatly sidestep it. The battered silver hits a shelf,
knocking loose a book and sending the contents of the entire shelf tumbling
after it to the ground.
“Surely you should sit and rest, Father,” I chide in a too-smooth voice. “A man
in your condition . . .”
“You’re your mother’s work!” he half-shrieks at me, staggering into the center
of the room without support. A clump of his hair slides down off the side of
his skull with an unnaturally smooth motion and lands on the floor. My lip
curls in disgust and I turn my back on him. I have had enough of this place. It
is time to go.
Suddenly, he gasps and falls to his knees and I turn. Strangely enough, all I
feel is a perverse sense of pleasure in watching him gasp and choke on the
ground. I understand now why I came; I came home to watch him die.
“Severus . . .” One bony claw of a hand extends towards me imploringly and I
take a small, careful step backwards. The hem of my robes sway and whisper just
out of reach of his fingertips. I have no time for this.
I take another step backwards and the old man coughs and hacks horribly. Blood
stains his purple lips and he reaches out once again, mouthing my name in
obvious pain. The moonlight hits the window at just the right angle and the air
turns a starling white, and then an almost crimson color as it streams through
the tinted panels—the same color as the blood staining the floor.
My gaze lingers a moment longer, but I know I have to leave. . . . I know I
have to leave.
“Sev—”
“Goodbye, Aigris Snape.”
I turn sharply on my heel as he chokes on his own blood behind me, but then I
pause at the door. I turn my head, taking in my mother’s frozen sobbing, my
father gasping in pain, and the moonlight flooding the room. I point my wand at
the spider web in the corner.
“Letum.”
The spider immediately drops out of its hole in the wall, long legs spasming as
the spell destroys its internal organs, burning through its body from the
inside out. It is not Eptum, but it is beautifully effective. And right in my
father’s line of vision.
I turn and pull open the heavy doors, ignoring the curses my father sends at
me. The clock in the entrance hall reads 9:32 now. I’ve tarried here for far
too long, and the throbbing in my arm now feels like a low level burn.
I will send a House Elf later to deal with the bodies and round up my father’s
pets. But now I need to go. Now.
The doors boom shut behind me and I feel the wards of the house shift,
accepting me. He is dead then. But I feel nothing, aware only of the time, and,
Dark Mark burning, hurry back home.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Albus Dumbledore was a very old man. He was also a very tired man. He had—quite
literally—the weight of the entire world resting on his thin 168-year-old
shoulders, and was armed with nothing more than a human heart. Human hearts
were not meant to bear the weight of the world, no matter how remarkable the
man in which they beat. And they most certainly were not meant to carry the
grief that he carried. Grief that tore at him, bent his shoulders, and dimmed
his eyes when no one was looking.
Most wizards did not live beyond 200. Some reached 250 if they were lucky. 300
was an accomplishment. At 168, Albus knew he was getting old and the time to
pass the torch was rapidly coming. He knew that—even if he survived this war—he
did not have long in the world. Really, in comparison with the century and a
half behind him, the thirty years a head of him weren’t a very long time at
all. Long enough to see his children grow up, settle down, and live as happily
as fate allowed. Which, when one really looked closely at the situation, that
was all he genuinely wanted. No man, after all, asks for the roles history
thrusts upon them—they merely have to make do with what they are given.
Unfortunately, making do was very difficult, and very tiring, which was why at
10:00 on November 5th Albus Dumbledore was slumped over his desk, head
comfortably resting on a closed tin of lemon drops, snoring softly. Papers were
scattered everywhere and a scroll rolled towards his rather impressive nose
whenever he inhaled and then rolled away again when he exhaled. A smudge of ink
stained his right cheek and a merry fire crackled in the hearth. Fawkes, who
had finally had the decency to just Burn and be done with it, was sleeping
soundly in the little pile of ash that would serve as his nest until his chick
down molted and real feathers took their place. Really, it was a terribly homey
scene. The only thing missing was a slightly too-short boy with messy hair and
small hands sleeping by the fire, curled up with a book of fairy tales.
The missing piece of the picturesque scene was, in fact, not even in the castle
any more. Something that would have sent Albus—had he been awake—into fits of
anxiety. But, as it was, he was not awake, and therefore had no idea that two
of the hands on his clock (one newly added) had the words ‘mortal peril’
scrawled up their arms in hurried, glowing scarlet ink. Nor did he know that a
third hand that read ‘slowly removing head from arse’ in gold print was
gradually moving towards the other two.
In fact, Albus Dumbledore was rather dead to the world, and would most likely
remain so for quite a bit, because he had accidentally eaten his Dreamless
Sleep lemon drops instead of his Pepper Up lemon drops—an act that, while
unfortunate, was also forgivable. After all, at the root of things, Albus
Dumbledore really was a very old man, and everyone is entitled to a mistake or
two.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Chapter End Notes
     Translations_and_Notes:
      
      
     Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato
     Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro
     et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis
     cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
     Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem
     Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et
     Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum
     Nostrum. - I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to
     Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the
     Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to
     you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in
     thought, word, deed. Through my fault, through my fault, through my
     most grievous fault, and I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed
     Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles
     Peter and Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and
     sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
     Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem
     Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et
     Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum
     Nostrum. - I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the
     Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and
     Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to
     pray for me to the Lord our God.
     Tegenaria agrestis - is a member of the Hobo Spider family. The Hobo
     Spider nasty little hairy thing in an arachnid group referred to as
     ‘European Household Spiders,’ and can also be found England, Ireland,
     Wales, Scotland, most of western Europe, and most of North America.
     The ugly little bastards bite and, because they’re venomous, can pack
     quite a wallop (so as you can imagine, Severus is not fond of his
     father’s giant pet spider). For more information on Hobo Spiders and
     some images that will give arachnophobic people nightmares for weeks,
     go here: [http : / / www. hobospider. org / european. html ]
     Uroboros (Ouroboros) – The “tail-devourer;” the serpent biting its
     own tail. Originally it appeared in Egypt during 16th century BC,
     from which it migrated to Greek (where it was called ‘Aion’),
     Phoenician, Norse (where it was called ‘Jörmungandr’), and Hindi
     mythology. The Uroboros is the World Serpent. It represents
     perfection; completion; the full circle of existence uninterrupted;
     and the continuing cycles of life and death, end and completion, day
     and night, and end and beginning, amongst other things. In Thoth
     tarot, it is an element of the Magus I and an incarnation of the
     Universe XXI. In alchemy the symbol is linked to the god Hermes
     (Mercury) and is the purifying glyph. For the purposes of this story,
     I’m referencing the serpent incarnation of the Uroboros that appears
     as a single, perfect circle. The Uroboros forms the outer circle of
     the Snape Family Seal, in the center of which is a large open book in
     front of two crossed rapiers.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** Six III: The Ransom of Agamemnon *****
Chapter Notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 - Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
     Standard_Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and
     all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered
     trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The
     Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not
     profiting from this.
     Warnings: SS/HP slash, violence, & language.
     Kudos and thanks must got to my beta reader LadyDeathFarie and her
     whiplash-inducing turnover time. All remaining errors are my own.
     A note on this chapter: Yes, it happened. It was planned for months.
     I apologize; I had a good deal of difficulty writing this one. Thank
     you all for your patience.
     Flames are not welcome, but anything else will be happily accepted
     and garner Chocolate Frogs. So please review.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                              ~ Chapter Six III ~
                            The Ransom of Agamemnon
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
 “For thus saith the Lord, Thy bruise is incurable, and thy wound is grievous.
 There is none to plead thy cause, that thou mayest be bound up: thou hast no
                              healing medicines.
All thy lovers have forgotten thee; they seek thee not; for I have wounded thee
                          with the wound of an enemy,
  with the chastisement of a cruel one, for the multitude of thine iniquity;
                       because thy sins were increased.
Why criest thou for thine affliction? thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude
                              of thine iniquity:
     because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.”
                             - Jeremiah 30: 12-15

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Harry paused as he and Draco crept along the edge of the castle, gesturing
impatiently for the other to be still. A lithe shadow, a short girl with long
black hair, detached itself from the castle wall roughly twenty yards ahead of
them and darted away at a run, holding up her robes so that she didn’t trip
over them. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he watched her progress across the lawn. He
knew her: a short, doe-eyed First Year. Pretty, but unremarkable. Like the
other First Years, she stared at him a lot, so he in turn avoided her.
“Is that her?” he hissed to the boy behind him.
Draco put hand on Harry’s shoulder to keep his balance and leaned forward just
in time to see the girl dash into another clutch of shadows. “Well, it’s not a
Slytherin,” the blond snarked, still peering into the darkness. He blinked
against the chill night air. “I can’t see a thing.”
Harry stepped away from the shadows, wand drawn, and Draco squeaked and
stumbled as his support vanished.
“Hush, Malfoy!” the smaller Seeker hissed in irritation. He cast an uncertain
look around back towards the castle. An unnerving sensation similar to a clutch
of snakes writhing inside him sent shivers up and down his spine. Then, with a
surprising amount of stealth, the smaller teen edged along the castle wall from
shadow to shadow until he was almost out of sight.
Draco bit the inside of his cheek in frustration and seriously considered just
leaving Potter out there to fend for himself . . . But that would be counter-
productive. With a huff of resignation, the Malfoy heir followed the green-eyed
brunet, wincing every time an owl hooted or a leaf crackled. He wished he could
be as silent as Potter, but he couldn’t seem to watch his steps the way the
other boy did. Perhaps sneaking around the castle at all hours of night paid
off after all . . .
Harry paused at the edge of the south wall of the castle, scowling into the
night. The waning moon was large and heavy in its ascension and cast bright
silver light everywhere, flooding the field that stood between them and the
border of the Wards. The field itself was the large swell of a hill, with a
shallow incline on their side and a steep decline on the side of the Wards.
Though they could not be seen over the rise of the hill to the people Draco
knew to be down there, they could not cross the field undetected by anyone
passing by.
The blond caught up to Harry with a huff that sent a barely visible puff of
steam into the air. “Where did she go?”
Potter was crouched down near the wall, his dark hair and robes blending easily
into the shadows. He did not look up as he surveyed the hill with a frown. “She
ran across there.” He pointed at the hill. “Do you think we can cross?”
“Not without standing out like blood on snow,” Draco muttered unhappily. He
reached into his robes and fumbled for his watch for a moment before locating
the heirloom. It popped open with a soft click. “It’s 10:05. If we’re going to
go, we need to hurry.”
Potter nodded, but didn’t move. “How did they break the Wards?”
“My mother said it was an Ostium sphere.”
Green eyes stared blankly at him and the blond sneered. “An Ostium sphere,
Potter. It’s a magical artifact—small, about the size of a child’s fist, golden
when inactive and then invisible when active. You stick it into a magical
field—like Wards, for instance—and it absorbs and reflects back the energy of
that field. The reflected energy works like two magnets with the same
polarization. The field reflected pushes against the Wards and causes a hole.
The Wards don’t pick up on a breach because the Ostium sphere uses their own
energy, so the magic is never disrupted or discontinued. It’s brilliant,
really, but they’re very rare. Only thirty or so were ever made and that was
hundreds of years ago. No one knows quite how to duplicate them.”
Potter stood to his full height and frowned up at Draco. “So how did your
friend get one?”
“The Dark Lord, I guess. How should I know? Look, an Ostium sphere can only be
planted from the inside of the Wards, and only someone of ‘true, valiant
purpose’—whatever the hell that is—can even sense the Wards accurately enough
to find them. We all feel an imprecise fuzzy feeling that lets us know when
we’re in the vicinity of the Wards from the sheer amount of power they put out,
but only someone with an unselfish purpose and a real need can find their exact
perimeter. Some trick of the Founders’, I suspect.”
“So then you don’t really know that she betrayed us,” Potter said sharply. “She
didn’t mean any harm.”
Draco stared. “That’s what your worried about? Your precious Gryffindor? The
Dark Lord himself could very well be standing a hundred yards away with an army
at his back, but all you can think of is your damn Gryffindor? Potter, think!.
She cut a hole in the Wards of Hogwarts. Regardless of their intent, a person
goes to Azkaban for that. She breached Hogwarts security and is letting in
Death Eaters as we bloody speak, and you just want to keep her out of trouble.”
Harry frowned and his eyes hardened, but he remained silent.
Draco stared at him for a moment longer before his lips twisted in disgust.
“Well, stay here then, if that will make you happy. I’m going to see what’s
going on down there.”
He pulled away from castle wall and set across the field at a run, leaving
Harry behind him. The other teen hissed in protest and tried to grab hold of
him, but Draco easily slipped away from the grasp. When he reached the top of
the hill, he threw himself flat on his belly and began to crawl across the
grass, careful to stay low. His blond hair kept falling irritatingly into his
eyes and he scowled. A second later, there was a grunt at his side as Potter
landed heavily on the ground next to him.
Draco’s hand snaked out and gripped the other boy’s shoulder, halting him, and
startlingly green eyes turned to towards him as Potter frowned at the
familiarity. Draco squeezed the other boy’s shoulder hard, as though attempting
to press the importance of his words into him. “Listen, Potter,” he hissed in a
whisper. “We just go and look and then we get some teachers. Or even that oaf
Hagrid. With two witnesses and some Veritaserum, there’ll be no mistaking what
we saw, okay? But we only watch. I’ve no desire to be the latest of your
victims of time and circumstance, Potter.”
Those green eyes narrowed and seemed to flare dangerously for a moment, but
then the slight Potter heir nodded. “Fine. We just watch.”
Draco still didn’t let go. “And if it happens like I said it would, you owe me,
Potter, and you’ll help me protect my family. You promise me here and now that
you’ll help me.”
Potter’s lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line and for a moment he looked like
he wanted to argue. Then he nodded with obvious reluctance. “I’ll owe you,” he
agreed, still looking unhappy.
He stuck out his hand for an awkward handshake and Draco quickly accepted.
Something seemed to uncoil in him, relaxing as he accepted that small hand in
his own.
“Let’s go then,” he murmured, suddenly feeling less tense. At his side Potter
nodded and the two boys crawled up the hill to see what was going on below
them.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Minerva McGonagall blew lightly on the surface of her tea, sending small
tendrils of steam over the lip of the cup. Hagrid shifted uncomfortably in his
enlarged chair for a moment before reaching down to lift up his own teacup. The
wooden frame of the seat creaked alarmingly with the motion and Minerva made a
mental note to properly outfit the staffroom with Hagrid-sized things when she
did the budget next term. She really couldn’t expect the half-giant to be
comfortable otherwise. As it was, the tiny porcelain teacup looked ludicrous in
his enormous grip, but he was surprisingly gentle with the cup as he brought it
to his lips. The entire contents were gone in one swallow, of course, but the
stern Transfiguration professor only smiled and offered her old friend another
cup.
Hagrid beamed. “Thank ye!”
Minerva poured and settled back in her chair as the half giant added four sugar
cubes to the brew. “I don’t know how you can drink it that sweet,” she chided
gently, unable to fully keep the censure out of her voice.
Hagrid grinned again. “Well, tha’s the way it’s best,” he said, as though this
was the most obvious thing in the world. “Will Mr. Flitwick gonna be joinin’ us
tonight?”
Despite having done this for most of the term thus far, Hagrid still managed to
look out of place in the staffroom when they met for tea once a week. It was,
of course, part of Albus’s idea that the Professors all meet once a week in a
social setting to help them work better together and get to know the more
reclusive staff members like Hagrid, Trelawney, and Snape (to name just a few
of Hogwarts’ eccentrics) but Minerva could help but think that the man looked
terribly unhappy at the start of every meeting. Forcing Rubeus Hagrid to sit
still and drink tea was like putting a cat on a leash. It simply wasn’t done.
Though, if last week had taught them anything, it was most definitely that no
one was an island unto themselves—at least, not at Hogwarts.
Professor Sinistra entered in a whirlwind of finely cut robes and ungraded
parchments before Minerva could reply, closely followed by Professor
Kettleburn. The cold, severe beauty of the Astronomy professor sharply offset
Kettleburn’s bedraggled appearance as the queenly young woman stalked over to
the table. She sat down next to Hagrid and offered him a tight, narrow smile,
making the C.M.C. professor look even more out of place. Hagrid, knowing that
the smile was as welcoming as the dark-haired woman ever got, beamed in
response and Sinistra’s smile widened just a bit. Kettleburn slumped into a
chair next to Minerva and fanned himself with a pudgy hand.
“I don’t know how Severus deals with those monsters day in and day out,” the
rotund professor whined in a strikingly high-pitched voice. “Three explosions
before eleven o’clock today. Three!” he squeaked in protest. “How does he bear
it? I only had two classes! And those horrid Sixth Years! Paper cranes in the
Calming Potion! Calming Potion on the ceiling! Ceiling in the cauldrons!”
At the mention of the Potions Master, Minerva looked significantly less pleased
than before as she handed out more tea. “Well, the man always did keep a firm
hand on his classes.” The compliment was grudging at best.
Sinistra’s velvety eyes turned to Minerva and her lips tilted towards a smile
that looked considerably less friendly than the one Hagrid had received. Though
she had nothing against the deputy Headmistress per se, she had no patience for
House rivalries, as they only interfered in the students’ educations and added
to the already complex politics of Hogwarts. “Professor Snape will not be
joining us this evening. I hear that he’s away on family business.” Like her,
the Astronomy teacher’s voice was sensual and dark.
The mention of Snape and family together seemed to perk everyone’s interest
considerably, but Sinistra continued before anyone could comment. “Nor will
Filius or Professor Sprout. Apparently, the Mandrakes are teething . . . and
Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Creevey the younger turned Filius green and pink this
evening before dinner. Vector and Poppy should be down shortly . . . provided
Ms. Granger latest academic efforts don’t keep Vector in the Library all night
researching theorems again.”
“Now, now then,” Hagrid rumbled, ever the peace maker. “She’s jus’ got a bit o’
spirit, tha’s all.”
Sinistra laughed quietly. “The girl is a menace. She should come with a warning
label: not for daily use or essay assignments. Thank Circe Potter and Weasley
keep her in line. She’ll be a formidable witch when she grows out of it,
though—one of the best in her generation. If that one doesn’t make Head Girl,
I’ll eat my telescope.”
Minerva could barely keep from preening at hearing the praise the tightlipped
Sinistra heaped on her prefect.
Kettleburn sniffled sadly. “Gryffindors everywhere!” He was obviously still
distracted by his day as substitute Potions Professor.
Sinistra shot him a contemptuous glance and sniffed.
The door to the staffroom burst open again and Professor Whistlemeel, the
newest in a long line of DADA teachers, tumbled into the room. Literally. The
tiny blond woman picked herself up as though nothing untowards had happened and
made her way to the table to sit between Kettleburn and Minerva. That she
managed to do this without tripping over her own two feet was an accomplishment
in and of itself. The four foot, six inches tall professor looked like a light
gust would send her flying and her disturbingly baby-doll-like face seemed
fixed in an expression of perpetual surprise. Enormous blue eyes blinked at
Hagrid, apparently startled to find him still employed.
Why the woman had come to teach here was anyone’s guess. She seemed to think
that half the staff should be fired, Hagrid routinely ground up the children’s
bones to make his bread, Harry Potter was out to kill her, Professors Snape and
Sinistra were vampires who wanted to convert her, Sirius Black’s ghost haunted
her office, Professor Trelawney was the modern Cassandra, and Professor
Dumbledore was plotting for global domination. Her notorious clumsiness she
attributed to a cruel hex sent at her in subterfuge by Mad Eye Moody in an
attempt to thwart her Auror career. The fact that she had never had an Auror
career and Mad Eye had never met her did not seem to deter her in the least.
At first, the staff had found this all rather amusing. After all, Hogwarts was
an epicenter for certain political events and a bulwark against Voldemort.
Their students literally went on to shape the fate of the world—especially with
the Potter-Malfoy-Weasley class coming through: scions of three incredibly
important Wizarding Families. It was not uncommon for outlandish rumors to
circulate among the populace about such important places. That the professors
were so vital in molding these young minds only served to make the rumors about
them all the more ridiculous.
Everyone had assumed, perhaps a bit too optimistically, that once Whistlemeel
had settled in, she would realize that there was nothing remotely true about
those rumors. They’d been wrong. Even more bizarre though, was the fact that
Whistlemeel would actually accuse the staff of these things to their respective
faces and then seemingly forget that she’d done it. If Potter covered his scar
with that eternally rebellious fringe of hair of his, she couldn’t even
identify the boy, and just how she managed to consistently confuse Trelawney
and Sinistra was practically a magic all its own.
The tiny little blond accepted her teacup from Minerva graciously and smiled,
the expression making her look rather vapid. “I love Black Currant!” Even her
voice sounded doll-like.
The deputy Headmistress looked away before she was overcome with urge to hex
the girl. Really, if the woman hadn’t been at least halfway competent at
Defense, she’d have pushed Albus to remove the chit at the end of September. Of
course, the fact that she couldn’t tell one student from another if they all
had their names stamped on their foreheads no doubt had a good deal to do with
her even handedness in class. She didn’t pay enough attention to her students
to know who they were. Really, the whole class could probably just walk out in
the middle of a lesson, and she wouldn’t notice at all.
Sinistra, who admittedly took some rather perverse glee in encouraging her
fellow Professor’s delusions, leaned forward with a predatory glint in her eye
and brought her teacup up to her ruby red lips. Her eyes shone darkly. “Yes . .
.” the woman purred seductively. Her tongue darted out and flicked a tiny drop
of tea off the lips of her cup before vanishing back into her mouth. “I’ve
always found it to have a . . . bold . . . sweet flavor.”
Whistlemeel blanched. Her teacup was returned to her saucer with a heavy click.
Minerva took a sip of her own tea to hide her smile.
The wispy little blond smiled tremulously and stood, almost tripping over her
own robes in the process. “I . . . ah . . . I had better check on those two
love birds I saw in the Library hall earlier.”
Kettleburn looked up sharply, suddenly forgetting his Potions woes. “I beg your
pardon? You left two students alone in the hall to have a snog?”
Apparently completely forgetting the grave danger presented by Sinistra the
Vampire, Whistlemeel turned to blink owlishly at the round little Professor.
“Yes. Isn’t young love romantic? And they looked so dashing—that dark-haired,
round eyed Gryffindor pulled so close to that pretty blond Slytherin.” She gave
the sigh of someone who has just entered chocolate bliss. “Forbidden romance.
Pity they were both boys. But even that can have its moments.”
The DADA professor settled back in her seat and picked up her tea again, the
dreamy look still in her eyes. Sinistra eyed the woman with blatant distaste.
Kettleburn stared at her in disbelief. “Well, you’re not just going to leave
them there to have at it, are you?”
“Mmmmm?” Wide blue eyes turned back to him. “Why wouldn’t I? They were terribly
pretty.”
By now, Hagrid was blushing bright red and Minerva’s tea was all but forgotten.
“Besides,” Whistlemeel continued, undeterred, “I want to finish my tea.”
Sinistra narrowed her eyes again before her lush mouth settled into a viper-
like smirk. She leaned forward once more and snaked out a fine-boned alabaster
hand to touch Whistlemeel. “Actually, I think I’m ready for something with a
bit more body to it . . .”
The small professor shot out of her seat as though she’d been bitten, big eyes
impossibly larger. “I really should check on them, though!” she squeaked before
fleeing towards the door, almost knocking down Professor Vector as she
scrambled past her.
The tall Arithmacy professor stared after the retreating figure with vague
curiosity before turning back to the group at the table. Minerva righted
Whistlemeel’s chair with a flick of her wand and offered it to Vector as the
gray, grave-looking woman came over to them. “Do I even want to know?” she
asked as she sat down next to the Transfiguration Professor.
“Tha’ was just uncalled for,” Hagrid said with a half hearted frown at his
comparatively tiny companion. The censure did not, however, disguise the almost
Dumbledore-like twinkle in his eyes.
Minerva nodded firmly to Sinistra and poured Vector a cup of tea. “Good show,
my dear.”
Hagrid released a big booming laugh, Kettleburn snickered in a way that was
most un-Hufflepuff (his House at school), and even Sinistra smiled, looking
almost disturbingly sated. Smiling her own satisfied smile, Minerva pushed
herself to her feet with a sigh and barely covered a wince as she felt her knee
buckle beneath her. She picked up her cane with a heavy sigh and gingerly set
her weight on the support, hating this reminder of the odious Umbridge woman
and the prolonged debacle that was the previous school year.
“I had better go make sure the silly chit doesn’t break her neck headed down
there.” She carefully straightened her witch hat on her head with her free hand
before turning back to the table. “If Binns comes, do try to steer him away
from Goblin rebellions tonight. If I have to listen to one more lecture on
Urrgh the Decapitator or Soth the Spleen-Eater, I will find a way to bring that
man back to life so I can kill him again.”
Kettleburn chortled and Vector smiled faintly. Hagrid eyed the prim
Transfiguration professor for a moment, worried. “You want me ter come along,
Professor?”
The half-giant always looked terribly miserable when he saw her with her cane.
Though she knew that what she saw in his eyes was not pity, Minerva couldn’t
help but feel stung whenever he looked at her like that. She forced a small
smile. “I’ll be fine, Hagrid. Thank you, though.”
The huge man nodded a bit woefully and Sinistra offered him one of her tight,
rare smiles again and gently touched his arm. “I heard you’ve been trying to
get a hold of an infant Harpy.”
Vector choked on her tea.
Grateful for the distraction, Minerva turned and left the room to find the DADA
Professor. Knowing her, the silly thing probably just ran off to her quarters
and barricaded herself in—most likely with garlic and Holy Water, to boot.
The Deputy Headmistress’s heels clicked sharply on the castle stone, punctuated
by the continual tap of her cane as she descended the hidden staircase that led
to the teacher’s lounge. The stair let out in the main stair hall and one of
the moving staircase obligingly shifted over to pick her up and carry her to an
adjacent case. Holding onto the banister for balance, Minerva hummed off tune
under her breath and tapped the steel bottom of her cane against the ground
impatiently as the stairs finally ground to a halt.
“Professor! Professor! Guess what I saw?”
Blue-grey eyes flickered over to Moaning Myrtle as the voyeuristic Hufflepuff
ghost slid smoothly out of a wall at the foot of the stairs. Hard pressed to
stifle her sigh, the Transfiguration professor set her mouth in a stern line.
“Yes, Myrtle? What is it?”
The ghost did a little loop-de-loop in the air and giggled, her phantom eyes
shining with barely repressed glee. Though Minerva had never really cared for
Myrtle either in or out of school—she personally thought that death had driven
the poor girl a bit batty—there was no denying that the spirit’s penchant for
tattling saved the staff a good deal of trouble. Of course, that meant that one
had to actually listen to the attention-starved ghost—an activity that Minerva
despised.
“Well, spit it out, girl,” she snapped gruffly when it became obvious that
Myrtle wasn’t going to speak of her own volition. She walked past Myrtle and
the ghost pursued her, still giggling and blushing silver.
“Oooooh, they’re going to be in so much trouble!” she chortled in her
sickeningly sweet voice. “But it serves them right—he promised he’d come visit
my toilet and he hasn’t.” Ghostly eyes flashed. “He LIED to me!!”
A chill went through Minerva as the spirit’s vaguely concealed nasty side bled
into her voice with a snarl. It was probably for the best that Myrtle never
reached adulthood. The girl had always had a vicious streak in her a mile wide.
Minerva would have bet her catnip mouse that Myrtle would have gone Dark.
…Not that she had a catnip mouse. Certainly not.
“Who lied to you?” the Professor prodded impatiently. This undoubtedly had
something to do with whomever the ghost was attempting to get in trouble; she
just had to be patient.
Myrtle floated along side her, briefly disappearing through a suit of armor as
Minerva turned to corner into the Library hallway.
“Harry Potter, of course,” Myrtle replied, sounding as though this should have
been obvious.
Minerva sighed and resisted the urge to swipe at the ghost’s head with her
cane. Albus had told Myrtle twice that Potter was not to be reported for
roaming the Library hall after curfew and—
“That’s what he gets, though,” the ghost continued, sounding immensely pleased
with her ability to get Potter into trouble, “for lying to me to play with that
little blond snake. I told him—”
Minerva stopped, her cane tapping the ground with a solemn finality. Blond
snake?
Palms sweating, the woman clutched at the head of her cane and leaned on the
support a bit more than necessary. Her eyes looked distant. “ . . . that dark-
haired, round eyed Gryffindor pulled so close to that pretty blond Slytherin.
Forbidden romance.”
Minerva ground her teeth as the DADA’s words came back to her. Only she would
be brainless enough to leave Potter and Malfoy alone in a dark corridor after
curfew. Was it really too much to hope that they could make it through just one
school year without the now usual intrigue or more Potter-related drama then
necessary? The boy was a magnet for trouble, even when he wasn’t trying to be.
Especially when he wasn’t trying to be.
Unclenching her fist with a good deal of effort, the professor forced a deep
breath out of her nose and turned back to Myrtle. The ghost was floating a few
feet away, looking very put out at having been ignored.
“Myrtle, where did you see them?”
“Oh, they left the castle,” the child said, obviously bored now that they were
no longer discussing her. “They were headed towards the Forbidden on the South
end of the castle.”
What had initially been irritation turned to ice in the older woman’s stomach.
Her eyes narrowed. “The Forest? They were headed towards the Forest?”
Playing around in the castle was one thing—every youngster felt the need to
experiment (though she rather preferred that it be with the opposite gender).
That it was with Malfoy was only the latest escapade in a long history of risky
behavior on Potter’s part. For Draco, it was all too easy to believe his
elitism was at work. But going out into the Forest was another thing entirely.
Especially with the son of a Death Eater involved. Minerva didn’t trust Draco
Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and she certainly didn’t trust Harry to
have thought any of this through. That boy was the very image of low impulse
control.
“Yes,” Myrtle gushed, looking positively wicked. “I was coming to get you when
I saw them leave the castle.” She giggled again and hid her smile behind her
hands. “Are they in loads of trouble?”
“Oh, yes,” Minerva said in a frosty voice. “Loads of trouble.” She focused on
the ghost again. “Will you please go tell the Headmaster what has happened?”
Myrtle vacillated, obviously preparing to protest. Minerva felt the last of her
patience evaporate and brandished her cane menacingly at the dead girl. “Don’t
dawdle, girl! Hop to it!”
Myrtle fled with a squeak and Minerva strode down the moonlit hall alone, the
staccato thumps of her heels and cane a condemnation. This never would have
happened if Severus had been here prowling the corridors as was his wont. “When
the cat’s away . . .”
Her voice reflected off the old stone and cast weird echoes up and down the
hall. The silvery light reflected off her eyes and her features seemed to blur
for a moment. Suddenly her body seemed to melt and ooze like candle wax as she
shrunk and a moment later a large tabby cat with dark circular patterns around
her eyes stood in the professor’s place. The cat immediately bounded off,
moving much faster than her human form, despite her noticeably limp.
She was going to absolutely throttle those boys when she got a hold of them.
And then she was going to throttle that twit Whistlemeel. And then she was
going to give Albus a very pointed and long overdue piece of her mind. The
House Cup was going to be a memory by the time tonight was over, but she didn’t
care. She had had enough of simply sitting around, or always being a second too
late when disaster struck.
The stone was hard and cold beneath the pads of her feet as she rounded a
corner. The castle seemed to sense her determination and doors flew silently
open and closed as she ran.
No more playing around—not anymore. And no more allowing Slytherins to simply
do as they please without consequences. Tonight the little snakes would
remember why no one messed with her cubs.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Micah tapped his right heel in irritation and looked down at the wristwatch his
mother had ordered from Paris for him last month. 10:08.
Just where the hell were they?
He had to get the Glass in past the Wards; that was the most important thing.
As a student, the magic of Hogwarts gave him liberties that it would not allow
any others except those on the grounds at the Headmaster’s sufferance. He had
to be the one to bring the artifact onto the grounds, not his father, else the
magic inherent to the land and castle would reject it. That would be disastrous
to the Dark Lord’s plans. It would be best if he could actually get the Glass
inside the castle somehow—less risky for the Glass—but maneuvering a magical
item of the Glass’s size and power would be very difficult alone, and Hogwarts
would most certainly not permit Death Eaters entry.
He frowned in irritation—almost a pout, really—and kicked a small, loose stone
through the hole in the Wards. Thank Merlin he’d had the good sense to weight
the House badges down with stones before he’d returned to the castle this
weekend, else the wind would have blown them away and then he’d never have been
able to find the hole.
“Micah?”
The voice behind him startled the young man and he turned fast, wand drawn.
A petite slip of a girl standing close behind him cringed and shrunk back with
a small shriek. “It’s me!”
Jade eyes blinked, startled. “Mary?”
He crossed the small distance between them and grabbed her forearm roughly,
jerking the First Year towards him. Her dark hair fell into her eyes as the boy
shook her. “What are you doing? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I wanted to help!” she hissed back, offended. The youngest Creevey jerked out
of his grasp. She rubbed her bruised forearms and glared at the older boy. “I
wanted to talk to Harry, too! I’m a Gryffindor and I thought he might listen to
me. He’s got to understand that Snape and Malfoy are no good for him—too much
depends on him. When did you ask Harry to meet you here?”
“If you want to help, you silly bint, then go back to the castle!” The
Slytherin glared at her with ill-concealed fury and clenched his fists at his
sides. “You’re going to ruin everything. This isn’t a bloody picnic!”
Mary’s face twisted in hurt and stared up at the older boy, tears clinging
delicately to her long lashes. “Micah—”
“Go!” He shoved her towards the castle and she stumbled, almost losing her
balance.
“But I want to help!”
“You can’t—”
Mary glared at him and marched towards the boy, forcing him back. “I’m doing
this because I love him! Because he needs help! You even said so yourself. Now
why won’t you let me help him?”
“Because we don’t need your help any—” The boy cut off abruptly, his jaw
snapping shut with an audible click. He pressed his lips into a hard line and
took a long step backwards until he was almost standing in the hole in the
Wards.
The Gryffindor frowned in confusion. “What do you mean you don’t . . .” she
trailed off suddenly as understanding blossomed. “Micah . . .?”
The boy reached out and grabbed hold of her, jerking the girl towards him as he
stepped out beyond the Wards. Frozen, the girl let out a muffled shriek as she
was effortlessly removed from the protection of Hogwarts. Micah spun her around
so that he stood between her and Wards and pulled out his wand, pointing it at
the diminutive Creevey with one smooth motion. He sighed heavily. “You’re so
stupid.”
Mary’s eyes widened and she squeaked in terror as she stared down the length of
Micah’s wand.
The lithe Slytherin’s expression twisted in what might have been regret and he
flicked his wrist. “Crucio.”
The First Year shrieked in agony and dropped to the ground in convulsions. Her
neck snapped back as she writhed and her eyes rolled up into her head.
A sudden roar came from above and Micah, looked up, his concentration broken,
just in time to see a dark-haired form hurtle at him, throwing him on the
ground. His back hit grass and the force knocked the breath out of him. When he
hit, a sharp stone punctured his shoulder and forcing his hand to convulsively
jerk open. His wand rolled away into the dark grass.
The Slytherin blinked away the stars exploding behind his eyes just in time to
see Harry Potter sitting atop him. And then there was nothing but a burst of
darkness.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Severus appeared with a ‘pop’ on the outmost edge of Hogsmead, cradling his
left arm to his chest as though wounded. He dropped to his knees with a grunt
of pain. The burning of his Mark had spread to his whole body. His eyes were
watering and it felt as though a great hand was wrapped around his chest,
crushing his heart and cutting off his breath. Even Apparition, a task that he
normally took in stride, had left the reserved man nauseous and gasping.
This wasn’t a Summons. This . . . this was unlike anything he had ever felt
before. It was like screws of flames being driven trough his body. Coupled with
the curious sensation was an overwhelming desire—an absolute, primal need—to
return to Hogwarts. To Potter.
And the urgency of it was killing him.
The professor took a single, staggering step before he dropped to his knees,
exhausted. His return home had been hastened by the fact that he’d been forced
to break into a dead run when he left the Manor grounds and halfway down the
road he’d simply given up and shredded the external property Wards. His very
mind ached and a strange sort of magic hummed through his veins, pushing him to
his feet again and turning him towards Hogwarts.
He made it another six steps before the pain drove him to his knees again.
Severus pitched forward with a strangled groan and folded in on himself,
pressing his forehead again the gritty pebbled surface of the road. This was
not supposed to be happening, but it was just so damned hard to think . . .
Harry—
Hasty, aborted breaths forced his chest to jerk as though spasming and tremors
shook him. He heard a cat mew somewhere nearby.
This was not supposed to be happening.
A sudden shadow fell over the bowed man, cutting him off from the moonlight.
A gasp: “Severus?!”
Minerva.
A cool hand pressed against the nape of his neck, pushing the fire back just a
bit.
“Severus?”
Another arm wrapping round his waist, pulling him up. Holding him steady.
“What happened? What did that brute of man do to you?”
She sounded so angry. Angry at him?
Yes. She was angry at him. For yelling at Potter.
Harry.
Who most certainly should have died.
“Severus, you have to breathe. You’re hyperventilating.”
Arms holding him up.
Ached.
“Severus, breathe!”
Dark eyes snapped open and the man took a sudden gasp of air as though he’d
been drowning. He jerked away from Minerva and tottered uncertainly, looking
both wild and ready to collapse at any second.
Minerva stumbled as her weak leg jerked beneath her, unable to support her full
weight and she grimaced and shifted to the other side. She said nothing about
Severus’s strange reaction; in her experience the man abhorred being touched,
even if it was to save his life.
She watched the unsteady man warily for a moment, uncertain what was going on.
While she was still angry with him, she most certainly did not wish to see him
so distressed. “Severus . . .” She kept her tone low and soothing as though he
were an injured animal.
The situation—her, angry and rushed, and Severus, pale and obviously
hurting—made her feel curiously nostalgic for the young man’s school days.
She’d always felt she’d failed him in some important way then, and it galled
her to realize how much she’d failed at the promise she made to herself to look
after him. She took another step closer as those eyes swung around to squint at
her slightly.
The woman made a slow placating gesture with her hands. “Severus, did your
father hurt you? I caught wind of your scent when I was looking for Potter. You
smelled like you were in pain and—”
“Potter?”
The name was a rasped exclamation and Minerva felt herself tense at the way he
said it.
“Severus, you smell like blood,” she snapped to redirect him. The Gryffindor
head had absolutely no desire to get into another argument about the boy with
him and his question had reminded her of the real reason she’d been dashing
towards the Forest in her animagus form before her detour. “Now tell me: did
you have a fight with your father?”
“Father?” He looked perplexed by the question and his eyes had a slightly
glazed appearance, as though he weren’t all there. She noticed with sudden
trepidation that he was frantically rubbing at the Dark Mark through his
sleeve. He shook his head wildly like a small child, and dark, slightly greasy
hair flew into his face. “Potter,” he hissed, clutching hard at his arm.
“Now see here, Severus—”
“Potter!” he snarled again.
She glared at him and stiffened, the human incarnation of an angry cat.
“Potter!” the man repeated when she said nothing. He teetered again and seemed
almost frenzied to her. “Pott—Harry!” he finally snapped in exasperation,
obviously unable to say what he meant.
“Severus!” Minerva felt a hair’s breath away from hexing the man. “What has
gotten into—”
Something like an explosion sounded off to their left and the two professors
froze, both instinctively turning towards the noise. They stared as a distant
gout of flame leapt into the air over the rise of the earth and then there was
a moment of loud silence. Not even the crickets chirped. Some rose over the
horizon. The flash of green that followed illuminated the night with a horrible
familiarity and sent chills down both their spines.
Blood cold, Minerva whirled around to face her colleague, fear plain on her
face. “What about Harry?”
But Severus was already running pell-mell toward the vanished light.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
From the hilltop above, Harry stared down in absolute horror as the small girl
fell to the ground screaming, looking almost unhinged by the Curse. The word
whispered in his mind, wrapping around his memories like brackish water.
Crucio.
He saw red.
The brunet pushed himself to his feet, prepared to run to her rescue, when thin
fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist.
Draco jerked him back to the ground roughly, alarmed by the wild expression on
Harry’s face. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the blond hissed
as he tried to hold the struggling boy down.
Without a word, Harry jerked his hand out of the other teen’s grip and was on
his feet again before Draco could even blink. Then the dark-haired Seeker was
down the short slope, and he launched himself at Jasperstone with an angry cry.
Draco could only stare on in horror.
What the hell was I thinking?? Coming out here with a bloody Gryffindor?!
The blond scrambled to his feet, and ran down the slope towards the two
brawling teens. “Potter, no!! You bloody sodding hero!” The idiot was of no use
to anyone dead.
Potter ignored him in favor of punching the senior Slytherin in the mouth hard
enough to send a small spray of blood into the air. Jasperstone grunted and his
head lolled back loosely. Potter got in two more good blows before Micah
recovered. The taller boy bucked for a moment in panic as he came to and cried
out, barely dodging a fourth blow. Jasperstone kneed Potter in the small of his
back, forcing the smaller boy to pitch forward, dislodging him from his perch
on the Slytherin’s chest. As Harry fell on top of him with a yelp, Micah raised
his arms up to knock the brunet aside and accidentally slammed his elbow into
the Seeker’s exposed throat. Potter choked and fell like tree, stunned by the
glancing blow.
Micah wiggled out from under him and looked around wildly for his lost wand.
Blood blinded him and a debilitating pain raged through his head. He caught
sight of it just as Draco arrived. The blond pitched forward, sliding to the
ground to grasp Jasperstone’s wand just before the older Slytherin could summon
it.
The two boys each scrambled to their feet, eyeing one another warily. Potter
was slowly regaining his bearings behind Jasperstone and Mary was huddling a
fetal ball several feet away, next to the entrance to the Wards. Micah took a
slow, unsteady step towards Draco. His robes were torn and bloodstained from
the nasty split lip Potter had given him and his right eye showed the
beginnings of a reddened, puffy bruise. A small cut marred the skin of his left
cheek as well and the boy appeared woozy and stunned.
Draco took a step back towards the Forest, almost backing into a tree. He
looked much less the worse for wear then his Housemate, but the typical Malfoy
smirk was absent. The blond looked almost frightened, actually. He held out the
older boy’s wand with both his hands, one at either end of the yew length, and
his eyes narrowed. “Take another step and I’ll break it.”
Micah froze. He took a shaky breath and glared hatefully at the younger
Slytherin, unable to stop his bruised and aching eye from watering a bit and
sending a tear tracking down his cheek. He seemed to be hurting everywhere and
his head was ringing from Potter’s blitz attack. That boy fought like a
ravenous demon.
He watched Draco carefully, searching for any weakness, any hint of hesitance .
. . But the blond was a true Malfoy, cool and relaxed, even though he was grass
stained and disheveled. Behind him, the Seventh Year could hear Potter stirring
to his feet and felt something like panic well up in him. Pale green eyes
flickered to the Forest just mere feet behind Draco. The scuffle had taken them
several yards away from the hole in the Wards. He doubted the fools could even
see how far they were from the castle. But just where the hell was his father?
Draco eyes stayed locked on him, still holding the wand out before him, ready
to break it at a moment’s notice. “Alright, Potter?”
“Bloody brilliant,” a rough voice behind Micah snapped in irritation. A chill
went down the Slytherin’s back as he felt the unmistakable tip of a wand press
hard into the base of his skull. One of Potter’s hands landed on his shoulder
and a soft puff of warm breath trailed across his cheek as, pulling him down so
that he could hear the smaller boy whisper hoarsely in his ear. “Move, and it
will be the last thing you do.”
Micah stiffened, but obeyed, bristling at being so thoroughly caught. Gritting
his teeth, he ignored Potter to turn up his nose at the Malfoy. “You
treacherous mudblood lover.”
The blond merely gave him an airy look of dismissal before his gaze flickered
to Potter. A bit of his nonchalance gave way to irritation as he eyed the
Gryffindor over Micah’s shoulder. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Potter’s wand pressed even harder against the base of his skull. “I wasn’t
going to just stand aside and let her be tortured!”
A flicker of darkness at the edge of the trees made Micah’s heart leap with
hope, but he didn’t dare look to see what it was. Neither Potter nor Draco
seemed to be aware of it, and he had no desire to enlighten them. As it was,
the Dark Lord would see to it that he paid dearly for allowing that silly
Gryffindor girl to follow him tonight, regardless of the fact the Malfoy
family’s treachery was finally plain for all to see.
Draco was sneering at Potter. “So instead, you just expose us when Death Eaters
could just come waltzing up at any moment?! We need to get the Headmaster now,
now that you’ve bungled everything,” Draco snipped back, his agitation now
obvious. “Before the Death Eater’s arrive.”
The digging at the base of Micah’s skull became painful as Potter applied even
more pressure to his wand and the grip on his shoulder sent shooting pains
through the wound there. Micah closed his eyes and bit his lip hard to keep
from grunting.
Potter sounded furious behind him. “For the love of God, Malfoy, don’t you have
a conscience at all?”
“I have common sense and absolutely no desire to get myself killed trying to
save everyone in the bloody world! Don’t you ever think?”
“I—”
“You owe me, Potter!” Draco interrupted in a fierce hiss. “We agreed and you
owe me. You promised. So stupefy him so that we can get the hell out of here.”
“No, boys . . .” a smooth voice suddenly interjected. “I don’t think you’ll be
doing that tonight.”
Micah’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his father’s voice and he nearly
melted in relief. Daniel Jasperstone stood at the very edge of the Forest,
looking magnificent in full Death Eater regalia. His left arm was wrapped
around a semi-conscious Mary Creevey, propping her up against him. His right
hand was directing his wand, 11 inches of Scandinavian oak with a core of
werewolf hair and hippogriff feather, directly at the small girl’s throat.
Despite the fact the man was wearing his mask, Micah knew that the smile on his
father’s face was identical to his own.
The Death Eater jabbed Mary’s throat with the tip of his wand in emphasis. “Now
why don’t you drop those wands and take a step back like good lads?”
Triumphant, Micah moved forward as Potter’s grip on his shoulder went slack. He
shot Draco a dark smirk and was gratified to see that the Malfoy heir had
dropped his wand and turned a sickly white color.
Micah made a show of doing a lazy ‘Accio,’ the only spell he could do wandless.
His length of yew and griffin hair made a very satisfying smacking sound when
it hit his palm. He pointed the wand at Draco and smiled. “You picked the wrong
side, Malfoy.”
Potter stepped up next to the blond Seeker, glaring thunderously at the two
Jasperstones.
Daniel Jasperstone prodded at Mary’s throat with his wand again and frowned at
the Boy Who Lived from behind his mask. His mind was working fast. The Dark
Lord had said to kill anyone who stood in their way, but did that include
Potter? The Mirror was meant for him, after all . . . What would happen if he
killed the boy? Would he be rewarded? Or punished?
Potter was staring at him . . . No . . . Glaring at him. The man stiffened and
glared through his mask at the boy with his good eye. “I said drop your wand,
boy.”
The youth made a motion as though preparing to toss aside the wand, but then he
suddenly raised it and flicked it directly at Daniel’s head. “Vocis confuto!”
Draco’s mouth dropped open as a surge of white light flew from the tip of
Potter’s wand and slammed into the girl and Death Eater. “Are you utterly
mad?!”
Micah cried out in fear as his father fell and the blond used the opportunity
to tackle the boy to the ground again. They wrestled for his wand briefly
before Draco managed to seize the length of yew from the boy. He rolled away
from the older Slytherin quickly and felt a hex sizzle past him and hit Micah.
Strange, claw-tipped tentacles immediately sprouted from the Seventh Year’s
face. Draco gripped the now-screaming boy’s wand in both hand and bent it. The
wood flashed painfully hot in his hands and then buckled before snapping in
two. The crack was audible.
Micah made a strangled noise of pain as the core of his wand was irreparably
shattered. Draco dropped the pieces and pushed himself to his feet, grappling
for his wand as he went. Jasperstone senior had long since given up on casting
spells and had pounced on Potter in the interim. The boy’s glasses had fallen
off some time during their struggle. Under the older man’s much heavier weight
the Gryffindor Seeker was woefully outmatched and his face was rapidly turning
red from the large hand wrapped ‘round his neck.
Harry’s head snapped back painfully as the Death Eater landed another blow with
his free hand and he stopped flailing, stunned. Draco froze for an instant,
unsure whether or not he should interfere. He could run right now—flee—and no
one with half a brain would blame him for it. He could find Dumbledore, bring
the old man out here, be a hero and thus secure his family’s safety because
Dumbledore would not dare turn him away with the press singing his praises.
Draco Malfoy Thwarts Death Eater Plot! The story on page two. He could get rid
of all the damn middle man business once and for all and run. And leave Potter
to be either strangled to death or beaten to a bloody pulp.
“Fuck!” the blond hissed, knotting his hands in indecision. “Run, Draco! Run,”
he growled to himself, still unable to move.
Jasperstone punched Potter in the stomach and the boy’s body jerked.
Draco simply gave up and pointed his wand at the struggling pair. “Stupefy!”
The hex bounced off a low level shield, but the force of impact, combined with
Potter’s renewed struggles, was enough to knock Jasperstone off the Gryffindor
and throw the man to the ground. Harry’s groping hands came across a rock, and
he immediately grabbed the object, rolled over, and belted Daniel Jasperstone
over the head with it, knocking the man unconscious.
The boy dropped the rock and collapsed to the ground panting, his eyes squeezed
tight shut. His throat was mottled red and white and already hand-shaped
bruises were beginning to form. He licked his lips and swallowed painfully.
“Accio Harry Potter’s glasses.” The thick spectacles, one round lens fractured,
flew into his hand and he slid them onto his face and blinked up at the sky
blearily.
Draco watched his classmate warily, trembling slightly as his own adrenaline
rush began to wind down.
“You should have run,” Potter wheezed as he pushed himself up unsteadily. His
glasses slid forward on his nose and as he raised a shaky hand to push them
back up.
Draco scowled viciously at the smaller boy. “And let you have all the glory? I
think not.” He looked away, discomforted by the knowingly rakish smirk Potter
was directing towards him, despite the other’s bloodied lip. “Anyway,” he
continued, still looking at the ground, “there’s not a single other Seeker in
this bloody school who can challenge me.”
Harry grinned lopsidedly at his Slytherin counterpart and Draco found himself
grinning back, unable to resist that quirky smile. The brunet stuck out his
hand. “Thanks, Malfoy.”
Draco accepted the proffered handshake with typical aplomb. “I do what I can.”
Harry released Draco’s hand after a moment and sighed heavily. The breath
immediately made him wince, and a hand flew up to his right side. “Bastard hurt
my ribs,” he hissed in explanation.
Uncertain what to do, Draco looked away and Potter gently prodded at his side
with the fingertips of his right hand. After a moment, he abandoned his ribs
and gingerly felt around his throat at the bruises forming there. A crumpled
form on the grass caught Draco’s eye and the blond made his way over to it,
surprised to find that an ache slid through his leg as he did so.
He rubbed at his thigh absently, feeling a bruise there, as he made his way
towards the little Gryffindor. “What did you hit them with?” he asked.
Potter looked up and grimaced. “Silencing curse.” His voice still sounded a bit
rough and breathless. “Freezes the vocal chords for three days. Can’t speak
spells. It was all I could think of. Did I hurt her?”
Draco knelt down next to the girl and rolled her over as Potter hobbled towards
them and knelt down on the grass. The brunet looked to be in considerable
discomfort from his injuries. “Can we wake her? We need to head back.”
“I think she fainted or something.” He waved his wand over her. “Enervate.”
They both leaned over her, so intent that neither boy seemed to be aware of the
concern on the other’s face. Big brown eyes opened and she stared up at the two
boys without comprehension for a moment. Then her eyes widened in panic and her
mouth opened in a scream. When no sound came out, the tiny girl seemed to panic
even more and immediately began to thrash around. Harry, who appeared to have
expected this, acted much more quickly than Draco and threw his arms around the
girl’s torso, pinning her arms to her side. She elbowed him in his damaged ribs
as she struggled and he grunted, but did not let go.
“Mary, calm down!”
The First Year immediately stilled her thrashing at the sound of Harry’s
roughened voice and went limp.
Draco’s brow furrowed as he looked over at Potter in confusion. “Crucius
Shock?”
Harry’s lips thinned and he nodded. “She’s too little to be under that long.”
Draco did not question Potter’s apparent expertise in regards to Crucius. Ever
since the end of last year there had been rumors about some sort of bond
between Potter and the Dark Lord. Quite frankly, Draco was fairly certain that
he didn’t want to know. And—even if he did—any prodding would no doubt have
destroyed their tentative new camaraderie.
Suddenly, a violent tremor shook Mary and Harry almost dropped her, afraid for
a moment that she was in the throes of a seizure. Then a trembling hand rose
and pointed into the woods behind them. Draco stood and whirled around and
Harry’s head snapped away from the girl just in time to see four more Death
Eaters emerge from the Forest, carrying something levitated between them. The
two groups stared at one another, each stunned by the other’s presence. Then
Draco moved.
“Expelliarmus!!”
The Death Eater on the back right hand corner flew back into the woods,
slamming into a tree with a sickening crack before crumpling to the ground in a
twitching heap. His mask cracked down the middle and fell off, revealing the
pockmarked face of the headsman Avery, whom Harry had first seen at the end of
his third year. Blood slid down a nasty gash on the man’s forehead and only the
whites of his eyes were visible.
Whatever the Death Eaters were carrying between them was apparently immensely
heavy because, as soon as Avery’s support was removed, the other three let out
a groan and buckled before loosing hold of it and all falling to their knees.
One of them raised a wand, and Harry retaliated with a Jelly Legs hex so strong
it set all the man’s limbs to wobbling uncontrollably.
As the other Death Eater tumbled to the ground, limbs atremble, the two
remaining abandoned their burden and arose with their wands drawn. Harry stood,
the motions sending pain through his ribs, and jerked Mary to her feet. He
stepped in front of the girl and gritted his teeth, wand raised.
“Stay behind me.” His voice scratched at his throat. “The minute the fight
starts, run to the castle and get Dumbledore, understand?”
He felt the girl immediately latch onto his back, trembling violently. He felt
her nod against the middle of his back and steeled himself for a fight.
Draco stepped back next to him, wand raised. “You know, I blame you for this,
Potter,” the blond hissed.
Harry shot him an irritated look and tightened his grip on the hilt of his own
wand. “Yes, I know. I blame me, too,” he muttered.
The Death Eaters both raised their wand and the moonlight made their masks glow
luminously. The two boys swallowed hard, frightened in spite of themselves.
The cry from behind them took everyone by surprise. “Morsus!”
Harry whirled around at the cry, shoving Mary behind him again as Draco fell to
the ground shrieking in pain. Neither of them had been expecting another
opponent to be behind them, yet there was Micah Jasperstone, purple tentacles
writhing from various parts of his face as he pointed his father’s wand at
Draco Malfoy.
Harry snarled and pointed his wand at Jasperstone. “Stupefy!”
The Slytherin threw himself to the side as the Curse zipped past him. There was
a snap as he landed on his arm all wrong and he screamed.
The Curse disrupted, Draco’s cries ceased and he went limp. The smaller of the
two Death Eaters extended an ash black wand and a muffled, distinctly feminine
voice emerged from behind the mask. “Accio Draco Malfoy!”
The blond Slytherin went flying into the woman’s arms and she caught him with
surprising tenderness, toppling over as 100 plus pounds of gangly teenage boy
hit her. The woman immediately began to fuss over the boy, gently slapping at
his face to bring him round, but Harry had no time to marvel at the unexpected
sight because the larger Death Eater was suddenly bearing down on him, a short,
unusually thick wand waving before him.
“Crucio!”
Harry threw Mary roughly to the side and felt heat brush past his chest as he
barely managed to dodge in time. “Run!”
The girl stumbled off, obviously dazed and confused, but Harry had no time to
worry about his Housemate because the Death Eater’s attention seemed to be
focused on him and him alone. The Gryffindor Seeker staggered in pain as his
battered body refused to break into a run, and fell to the ground just as
another Curse—one he didn’t recognize—whizzed overhead. He blinked, one hand
securing his glasses to his face as the other clutched his wand, trying to
clear the stars dancing in his line of vision. The Curse hit a tree directly in
front of him and the boy stared a moment as the large oak’s bark seemed to melt
off before the tree began to shrivel.
“Eptum!”
Harry rolled to the left as the grass where he’d been exploded upward and,
using the momentum of the roll, pushed himself to his feet. His body ached in
protest but the discomfort had become a distant thing. Panic was now beginning
to kick in: Draco was down, Mary was useless, and he was alone against three
pissed off Death Eaters.
“You know, I blame you for this, Potter.”
Though said in jest, the words were scathing now, and Harry tried to use them
as a focus point to ward against the sense of panic he could feel trying to
blossom within him. He dodged behind a tree and tried to even out his
breathing. He had to get to Draco. He had to get to Mary. He had to get them
all back to the other side of the Wards. He had to get them all out of this
together. The brunet wiped sweaty palms against his robes and took his wand in
a tighter grip.
He had promised Draco he’d look out for him and his family.
He had promised.
The teen risked sticking his head out to see where his dodges had driven him in
relation to Hogwarts and the others and was horrified to realize that they had
actually been driven further into the Forest. The female Death Eater seemed to
have brought Draco round and, though the blond did not seem to be in any
immediate danger, Harry wasn’t about to leave the other boy in the arms of a
Death Easter. They were about ten yards to his left and he could barely see
them for the trees. Mary had had the good sense to hide behind a tree within
his line of sight and the girl looked like she was two second from a nervous
breakdown. The Death Eater Harry had cast Jelly Legs on was nowhere to be seen,
but the other Death Eater was standing between Harry and the Wards, and there
was no way he could get to any of his goals without the bear-like man seeing
him.
“Damnit!”
His hissed curse, unfortunately, caught the Death Eater’s attention and Harry
was forced to duck behind his tree again tree as another unknown Curse stripped
his shelter of most of its bark. His head rang from the sound of the impact and
there was a flash of pain as a bit of bark flicked past him, slicing into his
skin as it went. His hand flew involuntarily to his cheek and he felt blood.
Another Curse hit the tree and Harry could feel the abused wood literally bend
over him with the force of the spell.
“Drop that damned boy and help me,” the Death Eater bellowed to his female
cohort, “else the Dark Lord will have you both!”
Harry used the Death Eater’s moment of distraction to dive from behind the tree
and dart to a different cover, this one a towering Elm. The change of position
unfortunately made him lose sight of everyone else and he pressed his back
tightly against his new, as yet un-Cursed tree.
“Damndamndamndamn. . .” The muttered chant broke free of his lips of its own
accord and he clenched his fists to keep them from trembling. What the hell had
he gotten himself into? What was he supposed to do now?
The boy hissed out a breath from between clenched teeth and pushed his back
hard against the tree. Where was a centaur when you really needed one?
A full minute passed, and then another, and still no more curses flew into the
trees. Harry opened his eyes slowly and unclenched his fists. The temptation to
peer out from behind the tree was overwhelming, but he didn’t dare stick his
head out. Not after the last time. He wished vaguely that Ron and Hermione were
there with him. He wished Severus was there.
“Potter!”
The voice rolled through the trees, thick-sounding and deep, as though the man
was congested, and Harry flinched at the sound.
“Potter, if you want this little girl to see the next day, you show yourself!
Are you just going to hide behind a tree like a damned coward?! Are you going
to let her die in your place, too? How many more?”
The boy grit his teeth. How had the blasted girl managed to get caught again?
Didn’t he tell her to get to Dumbledore?
A wet warmth suddenly flooded his hand and Harry jerked out of his thoughts as
though startled. He blinked his eyes against the darkness and stared down into
the palm of his left hand. There was blood slowly pooling in his palm from
three shallow, crescent shaped punctures. He pressed his palm against his dirty
robes and set his mouth into a hard line. In the spotty moonlight filtering
through the bare treetops he could see phantom streaks of red on the back of
his hand.
“You know, I blame you for this, Potter.”
Then another memory—older, more painful, and infinitely more important: “This
is not some game! This is my job! My life!! Are you trying to kill me as well?”
And he could remember them all—even the one he’d rather forget. So no. There
would be no more.
Harry stood up, his back and ribs screaming in protest, and stepped away from
his shelter.
“Leave her alone!” His voice remained raspy from his bruised throat, but it
carried through the trees with surprising clarity. He pushed himself away from
the tree and began to walk forward, hoping he appeared less damaged and worn
than he felt. Brittle branches and long dead leaves crackled with painful
loudness under his beaten trainers as he walked forward, eyes trained on the
Death Eater in front of him.
Even through his cracked lens, gritty eyes, and the pervasive pounding in his
temples, Harry could easily tell that the man was unusually tall—a hulking mass
more than a man, really. Mary—still rendered mute by Harry’s spell—was clutched
by the throat in one meaty hand, while the other kept a pale peach-colored wand
trained on the boy as he came forward. A large purple welt ran across the
girl’s face and she had a dazed appearance.
The Gryffindor stopped about a yard in front of the man and his hostage. Out of
the corner of his eyes he could see Draco, now on his feet and looking
unaccountably cozy with the woman who had pulled him out of the fray. Harry bit
his lips and tried to ignore the niggling little sense of betrayal that curdled
in his stomach, despite his instincts to the contrary. The blond took a step
towards him, but the woman extended a hand, holding him back, and pointed her
wand at Harry. The Gryffindor swallowed hard.
Green eyes flickered back to the man. “Let her go.”
He got the distinct impression that the Death Eater was smirking at him from
behind his mask. The hand around Mary’s throat tightened beyond the realm of
safety.
“Drop your wand.”
The green-eyed Seeker’s hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his wand for
an instant and he almost turned to look at Draco. Almost. Then, his hand opened
and the magically enhanced wood fell to the ground with a barely audible
clatter. He closed his eyes and waited.
Draco, please.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The Death Eater kept his wand trained on Harry who seethed silently. “Get up
here, Draco!”
The man sounded almost . . . paternalistic. Which was beyond bizarre, since the
only man Harry could ever imagine being paternalistic towards Draco was Lucius,
and there was no way that that man was Malfoy Senior. Draco stepped into
Harry’s line of sight, his blue eyes locked on the ground. He looked
uncharacteristically . . . humbled.
The Death Eater’s body language looked profoundly unhappy. “You were told to
stay inside, boy. You were told to stay out of this!” He shook Mary as though
using her to emphasize his words. Tears slid down the girl’s cheeks as she was
jerked back and forth. “Oh, our Lord will have you on a platter for this, mark
me! The least you can do is dispose of Potter.”
Harry bit his lip. Draco looked over at the boy next to him and for just the
briefest moment their eyes locked. Draco looked away first.
The Malfoy heir turned back to the Death Eater and took a step backwards. He
raised his wand and his eyes flickered up. “I’m sorry, Uncle Richard. Aeternus
dormito.”
The Death Eater’s eyes widened just a fraction in stupid shock before he dove
out of the way, tossing Mary aside. Harry dropped to the ground, desperately
groping for his wand in the darkness. It was instinct alone that made him raise
his head just in time to see the Death Eater, mask lost somewhere in the grass,
roll to his feet and point his wand at him. It was Goyle’s father.
Mary landed hard on the ground with a voiceless whimper and Harry waved her off
frantically. “We’ll distract them. It’s us they want. Go!! Go now!”
Thankfully, the girl didn’t need to be told twice and immediately rolled to her
feet and fled back towards the castle. Harry’s sigh of relief was cut short
when he found himself looking up the length of the wand.
“Draco!” It was the female Death Eater. When had she gotten up?
Goyle’s wand trembled. “Ava—”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his palms on the ground, and screamed the
first spell that sprung to mind. “Ignis in terram!”
Power roared through the boy like lightening crawling under his skin. It ripped
out of his hands, and felt like acid against his flesh. Harry threw back his
head and screamed in pain. Motes of light danced in front of his eyes.
A giant gout of red flame leapt up to the sky, engulfing the man and setting
several trees alight. The man released a short-lived shriek of agony and
flailed for a moment, and Harry had to avert his eyes from the brightness of
the flames. The overpowering scent of scorched flesh and burnt hair permeated
the air like overcooked, rancid meat and the Gryffindor felt his stomach heave.
He forced himself to look up again when the brilliant flame faded. Where the
Death Eater had been was now only a curled up, shrunken cinder. The shape of
the charred mass was the only indicator that it had ever been human.
Harry blinked away the spots in front of his eyes and slowly forced himself to
his feet. As he stood, his hand brushed against his wand and he picked it up.
He looked around the clearing, stunned by the force of the magic he’d
unleashed. It was an old spell—borderline Druid Magic—and called on the power
of the Earth itself instead of a Wizard’s own magic, merely using the human
body as a conduit. He’d stumbled across it during his study of archaic magic.
Most wizards would have died even attempting to draw in Elemental Magic. The
fact that he had succeeded was exhilarating. And terrifying. He had never used
the Earth Fire spell—it was not supposed to be used on people, but for smelting
weapons. The results were . . . horrifying.
The green-eyed boy looked away from the seared, smoking cinder, nearly
overwhelmed by nausea. The flesh on his hands was red and raw. They hurt. He
dropped his arms when they began to tremble violently and looked away, only to
find himself staring up into a pair of piercing silver eyes.
Draco was looking at him with an expression akin to horror. The blond took an
unsteady step away from him and slowly shook his head. His lower lip moved as
though he was about to say something, but he never got the chance.
A shadow hurtled out of the darkness behind them and Harry took two great
bounds forward and shoved Draco back into the woman just as a gutturally
shrieked “Crucio! flew past them. The Gryffindor turned slightly, nearly sick
with the motion, and released a little moan when he saw Avery, bruised,
bloodied, and looking absolutely deranged, lurching towards them, standing
between him and Draco. Harry raised his wand on instinct alone. He couldn’t
have cast a spell if he tried.
Avery raised a wand, bluish in hue, and pointed at him. “Mudblood freak!”
Harry swayed on his feet and for a moment thought he saw something like black
eyes set in a pale, stern face flash in front of him. He tried to summon a
shield, but knew he couldn’t stop what was coming next. He could see it in the
mad shine in Avery’s eyes—a strangely comforting green. He took a step towards
his would-be executioner and there was a sudden, painful swell of magic in the
air. He didn’t understand how he could possibly recognize it—how he could feel
it crawling like fire out of Avery and up the tip of that bluish black wand
pointed at him. He braced himself and forced his eyes open wide, even as he
cringed. Green light blossomed at the end of the wand.
Severus. . .
“Avada Kedavra!”
Avery collapsed with the effort of casting.
Someone screamed.
The Curse hit Harry with the force of a freight train, physically pushing him
backwards nearly a foot, and all he could see was green. Grass churned up
beneath his trainers as he was pushed backwards and he sunk into the earth
nearly up his ankles. It felt as though a giant hand were wrapping around him,
squeezing and pulling him apart at he same time.
Draco gaped openly in astonishment as the green light of Avada Kedavra bent in
an emerald bow around Potter, pushed him back a bit, and then bounced—snapping
out like a rubber band . . . right towards his mother.
It wasn’t even a question to him, simply a matter of necessity. The Malfoy heir
stepped in front of Narcissa and closed his eyes. And then he crumpled to the
ground as the light washed quietly over him.
Everything was still.
For a moment the Gryffindor stared at the other Seeker, disbelieving, his face
twisted in confusion. Even the woman seemed shocked, staring down at the boy
laying at her feet as though she couldn’t really see him. Draco looked like he
was asleep. The awful shock on Cedric’s face was absent here, as was the slack
blunted look on Sirius’s face as he fell backwards into the Arc. There was no
twist of pain. No anger or anguish or agony to mar the slender blond’s
features. No blame. The look on Draco’s face was almost peaceful. Relaxed.
More human than Harry had ever known him to be.
How had he died like that? So simply . . .?
And then the female Death Eater let out a wounded shriek that made the boy’s
blood run cold. “Draco!!”
The woman dropped to her knees and tore at the mask that hid her features. The
porcelain came away in a flurry of motion and dropped to the grass silently.
Long blond hair came free of its clasp and the woman looked up at the moon
brightened sky, blue eyes wild with grief. She gathered her son to her
haphazardly, unable to fully gather in the long sprawl of his limbs into her
lap. His arms lolled out to the side marionette-like and his legs bent and
folded in a way that, though natural, seemed unreal.
“No . . . nonononononononono—”
Strangely enough, all Harry could think of was that the air smelled like carbon
and ozone.
Narcissa cradled her son in her arms and wept dry tears, brushing his hair out
of his face and murmuring his name over and over as though it would wake him.
“Draco . . . please . . .”
The sudden bright ball of white light of light that appeared in the sky blinded
them both and seemed to shake Narcissa out of her stupor. The creeping things
in the Forest, the only things that had not fled during the fight, immediately
took cover as the Forest was magically illuminated. Someone was coming.
Harry lurched forward, leaving one of his trainers behind in the dirt, tripped
over Avery’s prone form, and collapsed on the ground next to Narcissa and
Draco. The Malfoy matriarch’s grip on her son’s corpse tightened and she stared
at him with an almost mad look in her reddened eyes. She wasn’t crying. Barely
contained screaming hysterical perhaps, but not crying.
Harry imagined that he could hear footsteps coming closer. He reached out and
grabbed Narcissa’s alabaster hand in his filthy one, leaving streaks of
bloodied mud on her pale skin. He had promised Draco he’d protect them.
The woman made no move to recoil, but she didn’t release Draco, either.
Harry gripped her hand tighter. Her skin was cold and clammy.
“You have to go.” The effort of speaking was painful and Harry’s sounded voice
sounded like broken glass being drug over sandpaper. “You have to go,” he
repeated in an urgent hiss when she didn’t move. “People are coming. No matter
who they are, you have to go.”
True to Malfoy form, the blonde took a deep, shuddered breath and seemed to
center herself. Her grip on Draco tightened and she nodded, somehow queenly,
tragic, and mud streaked all at once.
Harry grabbed her hand again and shook his head. His vision swam and blackness
seemed to pull at the corner of his mind, but he grit his teeth and hung on.
“You can’t take him with you. Questions,” this last came out in a gasp as
shooting fire laced through his right side. “Can’t.”
“I will not leave my son here!” she snarled suddenly, all the veneer of
elegance gone. “I will not leave my son in the mud and the cold and—” A painful
choking sob cut her off and she quickly averted her eyes, one hand fluttering
to her face to conceal her sorrow.
Harry removed his hand, feeling utterly wasted, and nodded his consent. He
rolled onto his back, pain stabbing at him with the motion. He would not take
her child from her, not even if he had the strength left to do so. The stars
were nearly invisible against the bright magical light that flooded the Forest.
“Go.” His voice was barely audible. “I’ll protect you.” The words tasted rancid
in his mouth.
He could hear someone running now . . . far away.
A hand brushed against his cheek as though wiping something away, and it might
very well have been his own except that it was so cold. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Things seemed thick and fuzzy. Then the touch was gone. Narcissa Apparated,
still cradling Draco, without another word. The crack of the magic echoed
loudly in his ears like a handgun fired at close range.
He turned away from it a second too late and, when he opened his eyes, the
brilliant illumination made it clear that the whole fight had really taken
place only a thirty feet or so away from the Wards. The runner was close now,
almost on top of him. Laughter, unfocused and hysterical, seemed to bubble up
in him, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Jasperstone Senior and
Avery and the blackened remains of Goyle all lay still within his line of
sight. Avery’s eyes were open and a branch was pressing into one of his
eyeballs. Casting the Curse had killed him. Harry didn’t bother to wonder how
or why. The fifth Death Eater and Japserstone the younger were nowhere to be
seen, nor was whatever the Death Eaters had been carrying. All had probably
vanished back to Voldemort where they had come from.
“Harry!” A man. Someone he knew.
No, no, no. You should see to Malfoy. But then he remembered that the Malfoys
were gone. The words wouldn’t come out anyway.
A dark shadow fell over him then, blocking out the light and the invisible
stars. A second one, slightly smaller, followed.
A woman. “Mr. Potter!! What happened?! Where’s Mr. Malfoy?!”
The laughter came then—thick, hard, and frantic—and he squeezed his eyes shut
against the sound of his own voice. “Y—y—you’re late—”
And then arms were around him and the smell of sweat, and old, dead things, and
peaches, and roses, and blood, and something he knew—something safe—was there.
Something that he couldn’t name, but was not pain, or fire, or charred Death
Eater.
Something real—
“ I’ve no desire to be the latest of your victims of time and circumstance,
Potter.”
Harry buried his face in the soft black robes as something horribly similar to
a sob worked its way up his throat and burned behind his eyes and he knew where
he was.
Anhur. Severus. Home.
He pushed the soft robes away from his mouth and felt himself slide away—“I—I’m
sorry—”and fell exhausted into the darkness.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Voices.
“Where were you?”
Women. A man.
“How is he?”
They faded in and out. And he felt both warm and cold—like he was floating.
“Resting. Broken ribs . . . curses . . . burns . . . own body as a conduit . .
. physical damage . . . reaction . . . worried might not recover . . . Calming
drafts . . .”
“. . . see . . . Healer . . .?”
“. . . be . . . idea . . .”
“Draco . . .”
“. . . nothing . . . do . . .”
“And Severus?”
Severus.
Something solid. Something real.
Severus.
But it slipped away too fast.
“Mr. Jasperstone . . . injured . . .”
“. . . won’t . . . talk . . .”
“. . . Veritaserum . . .”
“. . . All . . .?”
“. . . Cancel classes . . . three days . . . weekend . . .”
“. . . Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger . . . angry . . . office . . . talk . . .”
“. . . Fawkes . . .”
“ . . . the body . . . ?”
“. . . funeral . . . with Madame Malfoy . . .”
“Crabbe and Goyle . . . badly . . .”
“. . . Father . . . killed . . .”
“Severus . . .”
Severus.
“. . . Unforgivable . . . frantic . . . worried . . . potions . . . tell him .
. .”
“ . . . Azkaban . . . Ministry Inquiry . . .”
“. . . Board of Directors . . .?”
“. . . temporary injunction . . . custody . . .”
“. . . Obliviate . . . Creevey . . . St. Mungo’s . . .”
“. . . Slytherin House . . .”
“. . . angry . . . drunk . . .?”
“. . . Dark Mark . . .”
“. . . know . . .”
“. . . tired . . . Give him . . .”
Severus.
“And Potter?”
“Let the child sleep.”
The next time Harry woke up, it was night and he knew he was in the Hospital
Wing. He was laying on something strange, though; something warm and firm.
Something that smelled like roses and tea and something sweet and sour.
Something safe. When he tried to move, a hand ran itself through gently his
hair and pulled him closer to that delicious warmth.
“Shhhhh, Harry.” A man’s rolling voice. Shakespearian, deep, and tinged with
exhaustion. Tinged with something more. “. . . Rest now.”
And so he did.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** The Thin Edge of the Wedge *****
Chapter Notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 - Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                   10.7.2003

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
     Standard_Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and
     all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered
     trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The
     Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not
     profiting from this.
     Warnings: SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence, & language.
     This is the UN-CUT version. To view the “clean” version, please go to
     http://www.fanfiction.net/~vain and click on ‘Where the Heart Moves
     the Stone.’
     Kudos and thanks must got to my beta readers: the effervescent
     LadyDeathFarie, sparkly Korax, and tasty Evelia.
     Please review.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                               ~ Chapter Seven ~
                          The Thin Edge of the Wedge
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
       “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
             For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt;
                I am black; astonishment hath taken hold of me.
           Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?
      why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?”
                              - Jeremiah 8: 20-22
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
The words were drawn out with Veritaserum and etched into record with a Quick
Quotes Quill. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madame Pomfrey, Severus, Dumbledore,
McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were the only ones in attendance. And Fawkes.
Fawkes was there, too. The young, barely molting phoenix perched on Harry’s
knee during the interview, warbling pathetically and weeping tears for him that
were of no use.
Harry had never been under Veritaserum before and was grateful for the
insulation the truth serum provided. He could feel relatively little emotion as
he recounted the tale, and the memories did not have the hazy, frantic feel
that the events did. Everything seemed clearer. He could see where he’d lost
his temper, where he’d panicked, where he’d made his mistakes. And he had made
so many of them . . .
No one spoke but Dumbledore, and he looked old and paper thin as he prodded at
Harry’s emotional wounds. Not even the serum could hide the raw, tattered
undertone in the boy’s voice, though, and with every response the Headmaster
seemed to get older and grayer. For his part, Harry simply sat propped up
against the too-starched, stiff Hospital Wing pillows and stared with blurry
eyes down at his bandaged hands. A new pair of glasses—silver rimmed, smaller,
lighter, and expensive-looking—were on his night stand. His old glasses had
vanished somewhere and no one could seem to find them. Even after two days,
Harry refused to wear the new ones. Instead, he spent his waking hours
squinting at something in the distance that only he could see.
He would only speak to Ron, Hermione, and Albus—but that could have very well
been because those three were the only ones who really tried to speak with him.
Part of the reason for that was because he’d been cloistered in one of the
private rooms in the back of the Wing with an overly protective Dobby and Winky
standing guard all day. Everyone but Ron, Hermione and the staff were booted
out by the Elves. Another part of it was that no one could seem to look him in
the eye without quickly looking away. Thus, other than his friends, no one else
really came to visit him—at least, not when he was awake. There was, however,
the time he’d woken up to see Professor McGonagall sitting by his bed and
crying very, very quietly. He closed his eyes and pretended he was still
asleep. There were also the times when he woke to the scent of peaches, tea,
blood, and something sweet, sour, and potions-like, though the room was empty.
Once, thinking he’d been dreaming, he’d reached out and rested the exposed tips
of his fingers on the seat of the chair next to his bed. It was still warm.
“I found Ignis in Terrum while I was looking up spells for a project.” That
wasn’t a lie. Killing Voldemort was a project, if ever there was one. “I never
even thought about using it before—the books said it was too difficult. But
when Goyle started to cast Avada Kedavra on me, I panicked. It was the first
spell I thought of. I’d dropped my wand already, so I just put my hands on the
ground and tried to pull at the magic down there. It startled me when it
worked. It didn’t take him very long at all to die.”
“Self defense then,” Kingsley muttered, barely audible above the scratching of
the Quick Quotes Quill.
Sprout frowned at him and made a shushing motion with her hands. Minerva
clutched the head of her cane and glared stonily at the back of Dumbledore’s
battered fuchsia hat, and Snape was uncharacteristically slouching slightly in
a stiff, hardback chair with his arms crossed in front of him, stalwartly
avoiding everyone’s eyes. Pomfrey stood anxiously at the head of Harry’s bed,
minding her patient with sharp, hawkish eyes. The boy moved only his mouth.
Underneath the veil of the potion, he felt something broken and rotted inside
him. “Self defense then.” As though it could have been anything else. He
wondered if Kingsley knew what had happened at the Durselys’ house—what he’d
done. Dumbledore said no one would have to know. Dumbledore’s voice had sounded
old that night, just like now. They wanted to know about Draco.
He answered more questions and stared down at his hands. He wanted Severus to
look at him. Severus stared impassively at the floor.
“She wanted to take him home with her. I could have probably stopped her if I
had wanted to, but I promised him I’d do what I could to help his family.”
“And you think letting Narcissa take Draco back to Malfoy Manor helped them?”
“Yes.” He stared down at the grains of the potions-soaked gauze, seeing Draco
laying still and pale in his mind’s eye. “She was right. He shouldn’t have been
just lying there like that. In the mud, I mean. He wouldn’t have liked it. He
didn’t want to die like that—because of me. He shouldn’t have been in the mud
like that. Like he was a part of them.” Them. The Death Eaters. “He wouldn’t
have liked it.” The words were repetitious and tiresome and Harry blinked
slowly, trying to organize and regroup his sluggish thought processes. “I’m
sorry.”
He had said it so many times his tongue ached from forming the words.
An old, wrinkled hand laid itself gently atop his bandaged ones and squeezed
lightly, enough to make his damaged skin tingle, but not enough to hurt. No one
told him that it wasn’t his fault, though. Perhaps Dumbledore couldn’t lie
right now, either.
Severus wouldn’t look at him.
“How did Avery die?” Dumbledore asked.
Memories of the angsty muggle music that Dudley had been so partial to in June
suddenly flooded his mind and Harry closed his eyes in a long, slow blink,
listening to dulcet phantom tones in his head. He inhaled and exhaled slowly,
humming silently. His cousin’s attempts to seem tortured and deep suddenly
struck Harry as silly and terribly shallow
You don’t . . . you don’t . . . you don’t see me. You don’t . . . you don’t . .
. you don’t see me . . .
“Harry?”
The boy opened his eyes. Even blurry, the hospital was too white. “Disarming
spell. Malfoy sent him into a tree. He hit his head. I thought that he had
passed out, but then he jumped up between Malfoy and me after I killed Goyle.
He cast the Killing Curse and fell down. He didn’t get back up. I don’t know
what happened to him after that.”
Dumbledore made a contemplative noise and leaned back in his chair. He steepled
his hands in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of his seat.
Harry’s eyes began to ache from the strain of continually attempting to focus.
You . . . don’t . . . see me . . . You . . . don’t . . . see me. You . . .
don’t . . . you don’t see me.
Severus shifted for the first time since this session began and straightened a
bit in his chair. His dark eyes flickered to the still form on the bed and he
twitched and fidgeted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say something.
Poppy leveled a fierce glare at him from her Mother Hen position at Harry’s
side. Her patient saw the exchange as a series of dark blurs out of the corner
of his eye.
You don’t . . . see me. You don’t see me at all.
More questions. ‘What spells did they cast?’ ‘Where did the others go?’ ‘What
were they carrying onto the grounds?’ ‘What did you feel when the Killing Curse
hit you?’ ‘Has your scar been tingling?’
He answered them as best he could. The Quick Quotes Quill seemed unbearably
loud.
“Do you have anything else you’d like to tell us?”
“I’m sorry.” He wanted to slap himself even as the words left his mouth. He
wanted to scream. The potion wouldn’t let him.
The hand reached forth again and rested atop his with a gentle squeeze. “I
know, Harry.”
The Headmaster turned and whispers were exchanged that ranged just out of
Harry’s hearing. They were keeping secrets from him again. Veritaserum forced
him to realize that he didn’t blame them—not after the way he’d ballsed up on
Tuesday. He wanted to keep secrets too. He wanted to stop apologizing. He
wanted . . . Out of the corner of his eye, he could seem the blurry shadow that
was Severus staring at the floor again.
He wanted Severus to look at him again and not hate him.
The potion didn’t even let him pretend to grieve. It was somehow disgusting
that, even after all that had happened, all he could think of was Snape. He
wondered if he was sick. The potion let him know that it didn’t matter to him.
Harry closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.
Dumbledore turned back around and sighed quietly. “Why don’t you try and get
some sleep?”
The question was rhetorical. The potion didn’t care.
“Because I’ll dream.” Harry decided that he hated Veritaserum.
Dumbledore seemed startled at his reply and he shot Madame Pomfrey a look that
Harry was incapable of deciphering without his glasses. The matronly woman
gently touched the boy’s shoulder, forcing him to look up at her. Something he
couldn’t focus on was waved in front of his face.
“Drink this now, Potter,” she said in her brisk, firm voice. “It’s the antidote
to the serum. It also has something in it that will help you rest.”
The lip of the flask was pressed against his lower lip and he tipped his head
back, swallowing instinctively as something thick, cool, and unaccountably
creamy slid down his throat. It tasted faintly like rosewater and Harry’s eyes
teared up at the cloying flavor.
The mediwitch hummed in approval and helped Harry lay back down. Though most of
his wounds had healed, he still ached fiercely. His scar had also been livid
and red and had been throbbing dully since Tuesday night. He settled into the
cool, starched Hospital Wing sheets with a lump in his throat and a looming
sense of unease. He wanted to reach out and catch someone’s hand as they
passed—ask them to stay—but the effort seemed to be too much when he’d already
taken so much of his professors’ time and energy.
As the others departed, Dumbledore paused next to his bed. Harry stared blankly
at the perpetual glass of water on the nightstand as a weight settled down on
the edge of his mattress and the smell of lemon drops and—oddly
enough—peppermint underscored by soap and a metallic scent seemed to wrap about
him. The Headmaster looked at the glass that had arrested his student’s gaze
for a moment in contemplation.
Harry had spent most of the past two days asleep, or with Ron and Hermione,
and, between the Order, Hogwarts, the Board of Directors, and trying to stave
off Fudge and the Ministry, Albus had been inundated with work. Not to mention,
he had his own . . . project . . . he’d been working on since July. He hadn’t
really had time to visit Harry the few times the boy had been awake.
Interrogating the child the moment he woke up had not been the way he wanted to
start his Friday morning.
Thankfully, Ron and Hermione had been waiting in his office when he had left
the infirmary on Tuesday night, and he had been able to instruct them not to
ask Harry what had happened. This way, at least, he could create a cogent cover
story without too many people knowing what had actually happened. Jasperstone
senior had been spirited away to a safehouse until the Silence Curse wore
off—some time tonight, most likely—and Mary had been unconscious since the
incident and occupied a bed in the main Hospital Wing. She had yet to awaken.
Thus far, he had only Narcissa Malfoy and Harry’s statements to go by, but they
matched practically to a tee. Damage control with the Board of Directors and
Ministry could be accomplished easily enough—provided he pull the right
strings—but he had no idea how he would handle the emotional impact of these
events. Death Eaters were not supposed to attack on Hogwarts’ very doorstep.
And they most certainly were not supposed to kill one of his students and land
two more in the Hospital Wing right under his very nose.
Harry shifted slightly to allow the elderly man more room and turned sluggish,
slightly out of focus eyes to his mentor. There were dark rings below the boy’s
eyes and he had a waxen, waif-like appearance to him. It vaguely reminded Albus
of the way the boy had looked when Alastor had first brought him to
Headquarters from the Dursleys’ that summer.
“You’ve not been sleeping well.”
It was not a question and Harry made no move to deny it.
“He’s angry.” Despite the fact that the bruising on his throat had healed, the
boy’s voice still sounded a bit rough. “I can feel it. My shields have been
holding, but it . . . aches.”
Albus nodded and pursed his lips pensively, wondering what he should do or say.
There was no manual on how to handle emotionally damaged children and he felt
terribly ill-equipped to comfort the boy. Of course, in light of Severus’s
evasive behavior over the past few days, it was easy to surmise that Harry had
relatively little interest in the Headmaster’s comfort.
Albus reached into his robes and removed a large tome from one of his magically
maintained pockets. There was something comical about seeing him reach into his
thin sunshine yellow robes and remove this enormous book, but Harry didn’t
smile.
“Your storybook,” he explained as he set the book of fairy tales down in the
nightstand. “There was a school service for Draco yesterday morning. A plaque
was erected in his honor.”
“Ron and Hermione told me last night. They said it was nice.”
The Headmaster nodded and his eyes became unfocused, as though looking
elsewhere. “Yes. It was very nice. I suppose your friends have also informed
you that classes are canceled until Monday?”
Harry nodded.
“If you would like to take more time, that’s fine. Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, as
well as Ms. Parkinson have been granted extended leaves of absence.”
A small furrow appeared on Harry’s forehead. “When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow.” The glimmer in the Headmaster’s eyes seemed to dim a bit more.
“Mrs. Malfoy has invited you to attend. I saw her on Wednesday morning. She
came to make a statement to the Board of Directors in your favor. With her
help, and that of Kingsley and some good friends within the Ministry and the
Daily Prophet, we’ll be able to have this whole mess cleared up by next week.
Mrs. Malfoy said that she wants to put all of this unpleasantness behind the
family . . . And that she does not blame you for anything.”
His eyes narrowed shrewdly as Harry looked away. “Harry—”
“I’ll go,” the boy said to a wall. “I want to go. But I’ll return to classes on
Monday. Ron and ‘Mione said that they’d help me keep up, but I don’t want them
to have to. I don’t want to depend on them so much. If anything happened to
them—”
“Then they would be proud to be standing at your side when it happened,” the
Headmaster interrupted. “We’ve talked about this, Harry. You know you cannot
push them away, nor can you keep them in the dark all the time. Quite frankly,
they would be most upset if you did. You do not like it when I keep things that
you think are important from you. Do you think they feel any differently? They
are already targets.”
“I got Draco killed.” The words sounded loose and rough. “I don’t want them to
get hurt, too.”
Albus shook his head, knowing that Harry couldn’t see the motion. “Draco made
his own choices, Harry.” His voice was unusually stern and Harry turned to him,
weary green eyes widening in surprise. “He died doing exactly what he wanted to
do,” the Headmaster continued, “protecting his loved ones. Do not invalidate
his sacrifice or his bravery by saying that it was anything less. To do so is
both cruel and disrespectful . . . to both yourself and the memory of Mr.
Malfoy. You owe him more than that, and I owe both of you far too much to allow
you to destroy yourself over this, do you understand?”
Avada Kedavra eyes remained wide and Albus smiled sadly. “My dear child . . .”
the tone was both endearing and exhausted. “You have made many poor decisions.
And you have made many good ones. And, regardless of whatever choices you have
made, you—not the Boy-Who-Lived—are truly and dearly loved by many people. Even
those who would rather they did not care for you at all. We do not blame you
for this. I do not blame you for this. Not even Mrs. Malfoy—who was there and
saw the whole thing—blames you for this. If anything, this is the fault of my
inattention. I became so wrapped up in my scheming that I lost sight of other
things.”
He shifted on the edge of the bed so that he could face the boy fully. His eyes
looked terribly sad. “Sometimes, we become so distracted by the potential in
front of our faces, that we can forget the realities in the periphery, child.
And when that happens, people and events often fall through the cracks. I have
been overly attentive to some of the wrong things . . . in love with my own
cleverness, in a way . . . and this situation is in part a result of that. You
made a bad decision in following Draco outside. Draco made a bad decision in
going to you instead of me and in disobeying his mother by taking you to the
Wards. Mary made a bad decision in listening to Mr. Jasperstone and opening the
Wards. Micah made a bad decision in following Voldemort. But I am the one who
is responsible for the students’ safety. In the end, Harry, if anyone is
responsible for what happened this past week, I am. Not you.”
“You’re only one man, sir,” the boy whispered softly.
“And you, dear boy, are only one child. You cannot bear the weight of the world
alone. You need your friends. And your professors. And your confidence. You are
not alone, Harry.”
Albus smiled and turned slightly to the nightstand, from which he lifted the
boy’s new glasses. He opened the metal arms and looked through the lenses for a
moment before turning slightly back and gently sliding the silver rimmed
spectacles on the boy’s face. Green eyes blinked several times as everything
came into painfully sharp focus for the first time in several days.
The old man smiled at him sadly. “Sometimes, we have to be willing to see the
things we would rather avoid in order to bring the world into proper focus.”
Harry looked up at him through the glasses in obvious consideration for a
moment. Then he scooted over and curled up slightly around the Headmaster’s
bent form. He lay down on the pillows again and closed his eyes. “I am not a
child.” Somehow the statement sounded more sad than defiant. “And you’re not
alone either, sir.”
Albus froze, unaccountably touched by the act, and then relaxed a bit. Without
asking or being asked, he retrieved the book from the nightstand and opened it
to the page marked by a black ribbon.
He took a deep breath and began to read aloud. “Once upon a time there was a
handsome young wizard who longed to be able to communicate with hippogriffs.
You see, his cousin’s aunt on his mother’s brother’s side had accidentally
transfigured herself into a hippogriff one day and she was the only one who
knew where the wizard’s favorite cauldron was.”
Harry relaxed into the mattress, ignoring the feel of the glasses digging into
his face. He was exhausted and more than ready to submit and allow the drugs to
carry him into a dreamless stupor. He closed his eyes and listened to the
Headmaster’s voice, soaking in his mentor’s warmth as the elderly man regaled
him about wizards and hippogriffs and Egyptian phoenixes. In his head, though,
he tallied the names of his casualties up in an unspoken list. The headmaster
may not blame him for Draco, but that said nothing about Goyle. Goyle, he’d
actually killed.
“The hippogriff was confused by this turn of events and demanded to be turned
back into a wizard. But the phoenix . . .”
Now, two of those names were people who had actually died by his hands. The
knowledge was strange—like a burn on his tongue that he couldn’t help but play
with. He didn’t like killing people. And yet he kept doing it. He ran through
the list over and over again. James. Lily. Sirius. Cedric. Draco. Goyle . . .
And there were more still.
“How many more?”
His own personal victims of time and circumstance.
Eventually, he fell into an exhausted, chemical induced sleep, lulled by the
Headmaster’s voice and his own silent litany.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Friday_November_8th,_1996

   TRAGEDY STRIKES HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY – A HERO FALLS
                        - Article by: Felicity Cauldron
   Draco Malfoy, son of Lucuis Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, dies in an
        attempted attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Black banners hang in the Great Hall for the second time in three years. The
students and staff are uncharacteristically somber as they once again mourn one
of their own. Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black
Malfoy, died on the evening of Tuesday November 5th, 1996, felled by a Death
Eater curse. According to sources at the Ministry and at Hogwarts, the young
Slytherin was struck down by the Killing Curse just outside the school’s Wards,
attempting to prevent three Death Eaters from entering the grounds. Mr. Malfoy
successfully thwarted the efforts of two suspected Death Eaters—Richard Goyle
and Michael Avery—but the third as yet unidentified suspect managed to escape.
Ministry Aurors who evaluated the scene on Tuesday night believe that Mr.
Malfoy confronted the Death Eaters at the edge of the Wards and became involved
in a scuffle. In the ensuing conflict, Mr. Goyle—who was also Draco Malfoy’s
godfather—was killed by a Hot Flash Curse and Mr. Avery cast the Killing Curse
on young Mr. Malfoy. The effort of casting was thought to be too much for Mr.
Avery, who was also suffering a severe contusion from the conflict, and he died
from magical exhaustion.
“The Malfoy Family has long been suspected of having ties to the Dark, though
these claims have yet to be substantiated,” said Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt in
a news conference held by the Ministry this morning. “We believe that Draco
Malfoy somehow intercepted plans to send a small attack squad or surveillance
squad to Hogwarts from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and wanted to intercede the
Death Eaters. At this point in the investigation, all the evidence we have
points to the fact that Draco Malfoy died attempting to defend Hogwarts.” The
Ministry is set to release an official brief of their findings at the end of
next week.
It is suspected that the Death Eaters were attempting to breach Hogwarts in
order to kidnap Harry Potter for You-Know-Who, but neither Mr. Potter, nor any
of the staff were able to comment on the veracity of these claims. However,
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore reportedly had Mr. Potter removed to a safe
location until the investigation of the Wards is completed.
The Malfoy family has been believed to be involved with the business of You-
Know-Who since Harry Potter survived the killing curse in October of 1981, and
Lucius Malfoy was in fact arrested under suspicion of being a Death Eater last
May after the attack on the Ministry. Draco Malfoy’s housemates in Slytherin
reported that the young Malfoy heir had been acting strangely all year.
“He wasn’t himself anymore,” said Blaise Zambini, a fellow Sixth Year Slytherin
and heir to the Zambini Kwik Spells empire. “He didn’t want to socialize with
his mates anymore and seemed preoccupied all year. We tried to help him, but
you can only help those who will let you. We never suspected that he was
involved in You-Know-Who, though. Never. Draco just wasn’t that kind of
person.”
A spokesman for the Malfoy family released this statement on Thursday morning:
‘For hundreds of years the Malfoy family has stood as a pillar in our world. We
have shared with you our joys and our sorrow. Now, when our sorrow surpasses
all previous grief, we are particularly grateful for the outpouring of sympathy
and all the letters and gifts we have received thus far. We know in our hearts
that our Draco had nothing to do with the followers of You-Know-Who. He was a
good and honest young man and our grief has known no depth since word of his
murder reached us. Our only solace lies in that he died as he lived: a true
example of heroism and loyalty, and we know that—though he is no longer here—he
will live on so long as the school and the values he tried to protect still
stands.’
According to Ministry sources, a scholarship is to be set up in Mr. Malfoy’s
memory that will help poor children attend Hogwarts. An in-school memorial
service was held on Thursday morning at Hogwarts and a private funeral is
scheduled to be held on Saturday morning southwest of Obdan at Malfoy Manor.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“It was real nice.”
The operant words of a funeral. “It was real nice.”
Lucius did not attend. Narcissa stood at the foot of the casket as a man from
the Ministry droned on about all that Draco had accomplished and how sad it was
when a young life was cut so tragically short. Because, as the man had said,
‘It is always tragic when a life ends, particularly that of a young man who had
barely begun to live.’
The Malfoy matriarch did not weep.
It was Saturday and it was raining, large, cold, heavy drops of rain. Though
magic shielded the guests from the actual rain, the coldness of it seemed to
seep in through the invisible barrier the funeral director had been kind enough
to erect. The whirlwind manner of the funeral preparations made the service
seem abrupt and harried, though it really was nothing of the sort. Rumors and
whispers started and were rapidly squelched about why Narcissa and Lucius were
so desperate to inter their only son not even a week after his death, but
nothing came of them. Actually, it seemed apparent that most of the guests were
more interested in who was there than any sort of mourning.
The funeral was a Who’s-Who of social lights, despite the Malfoy House’s less
than pristine reputation. After all, Draco Malfoy had died a hero. He had saved
Hogwarts from a vicious attack by Death Eaters. At least, that’s what the
Ministry and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had told the
press. Cornelius Fudge was in attendance. He delivered a stirring eulogy about
honor and sacrifice and the bravery of Draco’s generation. Rita Skeeter took
quotes and her photographer took pictures of her next to the casket as she wore
a long practiced expression of wistful grief she’d perfected just for the
occasion.
Strangely enough, Harry Potter had also come to the funeral, though the two
boys’ rivalry had been the stuff of legend. The wizarding world’s reserved
little hero was dressed in slightly faded black robes and stood next to a
somberly clad Professor Dumbledore. Both wizards seemed unnaturally tired and
pale, but no one dared approach them. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to speak
to them found themselves skillfully redirected by the aged Headmaster while
Harry Potter simply stared at the closed oak coffin with empty eyes. Directly
across from the two Gryffindors was Severus Snape. The Head of Slytherin wore
surprisingly fancy ebony dress robes and stood with a large contingent of
Slytherin upperclassmen. He looked even paler and thinner than usual—almost
scarecrow-like, despite his stylish clothes . . . or perhaps it was because of
them. The Slytherin children stood in respectful silence and stared, bored,
into the distance when they thought no one was watching.
However, most people probably would not have noticed if the whole lot of them
expired from ennui right there. Even Snape, who was obviously their chaperone,
seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to them, staring instead at the
casket. If anyone had taken the time to stare for longer than an instant at the
Potions Master, they would have no doubt seen the beaded rosary—so red it was
black—that he clutched in his hands, or noticed his lips moving faintly in an
unheard prayer. His long fingers worked over the beads as he stared impassively
down at his former student’s casket, treading them through one dark bead at a
time. As it was, no one saw, except perhaps the Headmaster and Harry Potter,
who said nothing.
“Truly these are dark days,” some official or another droned on.
To Snape’s left, Narcissa Malfoy’s face could have been carved from ice for all
the coldness she emanated. Her eyes, though, seemed to burn as she stared down
at her son’s final resting place. Someone had the poor taste to murmur ‘Where’s
Master Malfoy?’ within the grieving woman’s hearing and, for a moment, her eyes
flashed with barely suppressed violence and she seemed prepared to whirl around
and seek out the person, but a thin, stained hand shot out and gripped her
elbow before she could move. Her eyes flickered to Snape and she looked
incredulous that he would dare touch her, so he quickly withdrew his hand and
returned to worrying the beads. Angered beyond words, the woman averted her
eyes and her body seemed to twist for a moment, loose and string-like. Her
black finery whispered around her as she swayed, pale. Standing to her left,
Harry Potter looked away and Headmaster Dumbledore closed his eyes.
“So young,” the man continued, sounding enamored of his own turns of phrase.
“With so much strength and light inside him . . . The realization of
potential—”
Harry took a careful step towards the woman, but then stopped and looked
hopelessly lost for a moment.
The tired speaker finally wound up the last of his poorly constructed similes
and left the foot of the casket to make room for the witch in charge of the
funeral. The elderly woman, dressed in severe black robes and too much red
lipstick, ordered all those present to hold hands. The crowd sorted themselves
out into twelve concentric circles around the coffin with the primary mourners
in the first circle. Harry’s cold, chapped hands were wrapped in special gloves
to help his hands heal and his skin tingled as Mrs. Malfoy and Professor
Dumbledore each grabbed a hand. He studiously avoided looking at anyone or
thing for very long. Looking at Draco just made him feel ill and heavy and he
had a curious lump in his throat. Still, it was not enough to overpower the
rush of jealousy he felt when Severus finally tucked his rosary beads away and
took Narcissa’s hand in one of his own.
He stared back at the coffin with a sour expression on his face.
The woman at the foot of the coffin began to chant in a language Harry had
never heard and a feeling like a cold wind swept through him. His magic, not
yet fully recovered, lurched heavily within him in response and he shivered. It
felt like the bubbles of a fizzy drink sliding beneath his skin and it took a
serious act of self control not to yank his hands back and cut himself off from
the circle. Dumbledore squeezed his hand gently and the boy bit his lip hard
enough to taste blood. It distracted him from the pull of magic pooling over
the coffin.
The headmaster had explained before the ceremony that this would protect
Draco’s body from grave robbers and from being used in spells. It was also
supposed to alleviate the grief that the attendants of the funeral felt. The
closer one stood to the coffin, the more of their magic was used in the spell,
but the first row of people also benefited the most from the soothing
properties of the ceremony. The old man nudged Harry a step forward and the
Gryffindor took another reluctant step towards the coffin, making sure to pull
Narcissa and Dumbledore with him. The feeling moved from fizzy drink bubbles to
garden slugs sliding beneath his flesh. He clenched his teeth against a surge
of nausea.
Then it was over.
His hands were released so abruptly that Harry nearly fell and a wash of warmth
moved through the boy, similar to the feeling he got from eating chocolate
right after seeing a Dementor. He shivered at the sudden change in sensation.
Across from him, Severus shuddered violently.
For a moment the Potion Master’s eyes locked with his green ones and Harry
looked Severus full in the face for the first time in nearly two weeks. The
rosary beads slipped from the older man’s hand and fell to the fading green
grass silently. Around them, people began to mill about and mutter to one
another. Skeeter resumed taking quotes, Narcissa stepped away from the coffin,
the funeral witch began to lower the coffin into the ground—spelling the earth
to accept back one of its children, and Dumbledore stepped between Harry and a
reporter. Severus and Harry merely stared at one another as the coffin was
absorbed by the earth. There would be nothing as low class or muggle as digging
done at a Malfoy’s funeral.
It was not until the coffin had vanished and someone began to herd them back
through the rain towards the Manor for refreshment that Severus broke eye
contact to retrieve his beads. Harry drew in a sharp breath and looked away
from his Professor as the man turned to usher his Slytherins back to the
reception area. The boy looked around wildly, sure that someone had seen the
two of them staring at one another and was going to find out that everything
they’d been told about Draco’s death was a lie . . . But if anyone noticed,
they didn’t say anything. After all, it really was a very nice funeral.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
His glasses are on the mantel. Cracked and dirty, they stare at me in eyeless
accusation as I sit before the fire in my lounge chair. Around me lies the
wreck and ruin of my life: books, potions, knickknacks, and broken glass all
carelessly strewn across the floor. It is a disaster. I don’t care.
Draco Malfoy is dead.
Draco Malfoy is dead.
Repeating it does not change the reality of the situation, yet still I find it
hard to fathom. Over the arm of my chair, I have draped Potter’s invisibility
cloak. Atop it sit my rosary beads. I have not removed those beads from my
armoire in fifteen years. I put them away the day I heard word of the Dark
Lord’s supposed defeat. I was twenty-two and stupid then. Thirty-seven and
stupid does not seem very different at all.
No. Scratch that. Thirty-seven is very different. Thirty-seven is forced
Occlumency lessons, and Lady Narcissas who won’t give me the time of day, and
Hogwarts funerals, and mourning Slytherins, and pale, hospitalized Harry
Potters, and impetuous Draco Malfoys whom I had a hand in destroying.
Draco Malfoy is dead.
I gave him to Albus Dumbledore and now he’s dead. I wonder where Lucius is and
if he hates me for failing to do as he asked. I can only protect one person at
a time, though, and that person is currently alive and well and ensconced in
the red and gold of Gryffindor Tower. The Dark Mark on my left arm throbs in a
way that is not quite painful, as though reminding me of that fact. I ignore
it. One person at a time, Severus. Yet none of this changes the fact that Draco
Malfoy is dead, and if I didn’t feel so bloody empty and strung out, I’d be
reeling from the knowledge.
My eyes fix on the glasses again and I shift, knocking the blood red rosary
beads to the floor. I turn to look at them, and instead find myself looking at
the cloak. The cloak. Harry Potter’s cloak.
Quite a collection I have going here . . . Glasses stolen off an unconscious
and wounded boy, and an irreplaceable cloak confiscated from said boy, both
occupying my chambers . . . An incomplete collection.
I wonder what Potter has told people about the cloak. Everyone believes the
spectacles to have been lost in the brainlessly epic battle on Tuesday. There
were no questions and in all the fuss and bother of bustling Potter into the
Hospital Wing and finding the Creevey girl unconscious on the lawn, no one
noticed something as silly as a pair of glasses vanishing into my robes. Once
Pomfrey had me on a bed and filled to the gills with numbing potions and
chocolate, no one noticed me at all. Minerva apparently handles finding a
hysterical, bloodied Potter lying on the ground with two corpses and an
unconscious Death Eater much better than I do.
But the cloak is something different. I never told anyone I still had it . . .
Though Albus knows. Albus knows everything. Bastard. Even the Dark Lord thinks
Potter still has it—my little reports have taken care of that. How on earth
would I explain clinging to the damn thing like a security blanket to a
creature who is more snake than man? Although, if the student were anyone other
than Potter, my dear mad Lord would probably laugh himself into a stupor over
my questionable tactics of seduction.
But what did Potter tell everyone?
He lost it?
He dropped it?
He forgot it when he was fleeing his Potions Master after being sexually
assaulted?
Does it even matter?
I have it and it’s mine now and I have never once in my life willingly
relinquished what is mine.
Why do I still have this thing, though?
I lower my water filled brandy snifter to the ground and then straighten and
run my now free hand over the cool, liquid-like fabric.
Potter . . . My wide-eyed, flawed, battered Harry Potter . . .
Surely, this cloak has as many lives as that impetuous, thrice-damned
Gryffindor. It miraculously survived my tantrums last week . . . And this week
. . . And tonight. I would blame it on Albus, or Potter—Harry—or Merlin himself
if I could, but I cannot. Neither Albus, nor Harry—POTTER!—nor Merlin made me
cherish this silly bit of silky silver. They do not know I treasure this stupid
thing—touch it because he touched it . . . Feel it because I can feel him in
the very thread.
What have I become?
I bite my lip and shift uncomfortably, slouching in my seat. My breath quickens
and the feel of the cloak overwhelms my shame.
I tell myself I am not seriously considering sitting alone in my quarters and
wanking off while fondling Potter’s cloak. James Potter’s cloak. Whatever.
Never mind that it smells like Harry . . . feels like Harry—
POTTER!!
I need a drink.
Instead, I take a sip of water, remove a butterscotch from an inner pocket in
my robes, and pop it into my mouth. The candy was a gift from Albus, one of an
immense bag that now sits on the corner of my desk. For some reason, the old
git’s been experimenting with new candies. I’ve seen neither hair nor hide of a
single lemon drop since before I left for the Manor. That has to be a record of
some sort.
Of course, I try not to think about why the old man felt the need to unload
this particular sweet off on me. Even imagining the possibilities makes me
vaguely ill . . . and obscenely jealous. Which is so very wrong.
Because it tastes like just like him. His kisses. His breath as I pressed him
hard against the stone wall and entangled my legs between his. Felt that
wonderful hardness growing and heard those breathy little pants and groans . .
. I could grow fond of muggle sweets, I think.
Fuck you, Albus.
I spit the candy into my palm and toss it into the fireplace. The remaining
offending stickiness is wiped onto my dress robes.
Funeral robes.
Gods above, I need a drink.
I need to not be thinking about pressing Harry Potter against my wall and
tearing off his clothes and—
I lick my lips and taste butterscotch.
My legs spread of their own volition and the folds of the cloak feel like silk
in my hand. Green eyes on my skin. I lift my hips in a subtle thrust and my
lips part soundlessly. Silk in my hand. I wipe my other hand, still sticky from
the candy, on my robes again and the scent of butterscotch permeates the air.
Merlin.
He would beg. Twist and whimper and try to force my hands to go where he wanted
them. But I am in control and he is mine to do with as I see fit.
MINE.
My right hand clutches at the cloak, trying to grab at something
solid—something to keep me grounded—and my treacherous left hand drifts towards
my inner thigh. I tip my head back, stare at a distant ceiling, and slip my
left hand between the wide spaces of my buttons and into my robes. The buttons
on my pants slide out from their holes with ease and at last, at last, I feel
the achingly familiar feel of hardened flesh. The cloak feels cool between my
fingers and I feel so overwhelmingly hot and Harry felt like petals and
smelling like dusty places and power and butterscotch.
My eyes close, the cloak slips from between my fingers, and there a quiet moan
that isn’t his, but could have been because he trembled so perfectly and looked
so scared. I could have caught up those bird-thin wrists and pinned him against
the wall and torn off those stupid pants and those thin, schoolboy briefs and
felt that heat in my hand while he writhed and panted like a two knut whore.
‘Professor—Severus!’
God . . .
He’d be loud. Those soft little pants would become moans and then cries while I
pressed and took and claimed because he’s mine and no one else will take him or
have him because no one else can keep him and dear Merlin, I want—
“Harry!”
And he’s mine . . .
The pleasure is vulgar and I shudder as it washes through me, accepting what I
can take. But the reality of masturbation is sticky, sweaty, and pungent. And
cold. Opening my eyes and remembering that I’m alone and Harry’s not here and
Draco is dead, and there is a bag of uneaten butterscotches on my desk is cold.
I am cold.
And alone.
My left hand slides out of my pants and I look away from the slime congealing
there. It is an effort to ignore the cooling clamminess sliding down my thigh
and staining my pants with heavy wetness. Unstained, my right hand flies up to
cover my nose and mouth and block the stench, forcing back the wave of sickness
that washes through me.
The pleasure is vulgar.
And my lower jaw is trembling.
And I want Harry.
I push myself to my feet and walk with uneasy steps to my shower, shedding
robes and shirt and undershirt along the way. The light in the bathroom flares
on as I enter and I kick my shoes off towards the wall. They hit the toilet
instead and roll clumsily in opposite directions. I jerk off my socks and toss
them behind me towards my bedroom and my pants hit the ground next. I step
naked into the shower and shiver.
“This pleasure is vulgar.”
The words echo off of the marble and bounce back at me in accusation. I close
my eyes and water bursts from the ceiling of the shower chamber with a muttered
spell. Hot water runs through greasy hair and slides down my face as I close my
eyes and drop my head. I lean forward, resting one forearm against the wall to
support myself, and feel the tension of the day and the commingled scents of
semen and post-funeral buffet biscuits run off my skin and down the drain.
Again, my free hand drifts up to my gradually reawakening erection and I see a
vivid green gaze in my mind’s eye. My hand tightens and I gasp as water flows
down over my closed eyes and the bridge of my nose.
This pleasure is vulgar. My hips thrust into my own hand and I bite down on my
fist. This pleasure is vulgar, but remembering how green his eyes were this
morning, and how pale he looked against the white sheets of the Hospital Wing,
I cannot for the life of me recall why.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“As you requested. I have not told your parents or your brothers what has
happened, Mary. They believe you to be here due to a Potions accident.”
The girl looked up from where she was drumming her fingers on her thigh. Albus
looked back at her with sad blue eyes. There was long, uncomfortable moment of
silence, then youngest Creevey child turned away from the headmaster and stared
back at her hand. Her eyes had an unnaturally glazed look to them and her
movements seemed wooden and marionette-like, as though she couldn’t quite
control her own body: the aftereffects of Veritaserum.
“Mary, tell me why you opened the Wards.”
She did not look up, but when she spoke her voice was whispery and thin. “He
left the first night of term. I was in the Common Room . . . there was no one
there when I looked up, but the Portrait hole opened and closed. I don’t think
he knew I was there.” Her eyes grew distant as she stared downwards, as though
watching the events play out on her skin. “I followed him out. Dennis always
said that he had an invisibility cloak, but I wanted to see it for myself . . .
I got lost though. Peeves chased me into the dungeons with dung bombs yelling
about Filch.” Her dark brown eyes, red rimmed and swollen, flickered up to the
man by her bedside. “I was wandering around when I heard them talking. I snuck
up to the door and saw him and Snape . . . they were ki—”
“What did you do then?” Dumbledore interrupted gently.
A shudder wracked the girl’s small frame and for a moment it looked as through
she was going to expel the Veritaserum. Then she leaned back, limp and
perspiring.
“She’s not ready for this, Headmaster,” Poppy snapped, looking agitated. “I
told you—”
“We must resolve this as soon as possible, Poppy,” Albus responded with an
exhausted sigh. He sat back in his seat, looking old and tired. “So long as
Harry’s guardianship is in the air, we cannot afford to have too much inquiry
into Harry’s behavior. If the Board discovers his involvement in yet another
disruption—particularly the death of another student—he will be expelled. If
that happens, he will surely become a ward of the Ministry. We cannot give
Fudge any opportunities to fight my application.” He paused to rub the bridge
of his nose tiredly, craving a lemon drop. “In fact the less he knows, the
better,” he resumed quietly. “If the Minster gains unlimited access to Harry,
we may as well hand the world over to Voldemort on a platter.”
The matronly woman looked up from where she was monitoring the child’s pulse.
Her stern features were set in an unhappy frown. “Still, she is only a child .
. .”
“Who could destroy everything we have worked for over the past fifteen years if
she is not brought to heel,” the old man countered.
The mediwitch looked away, still disquieted, but unable to argue with him.
Albus watched the child’s pinched face in somber silence for a long moment. “Is
she well?”
Poppy stood, looking deeply unhappy. “Well enough to continue. But not for too
much longer. She’s very delicate; her body has received a nasty shock.”
Albus nodded and leaned forward, carefully watching Mary. The very last thing
he ever wanted to do was endanger one of the children under his care, but if
Mary said the wrong thing to the wrong people, she could endanger them all.
“Mary, what did you do then?”
A pained gasp left Mary’s lips as the potion forced her to answer him and she
slowly sat upright again. It broke the Headmaster’s heart to see her suffering
so.
“I ran,” the girl whispered. “I was headed out of the dungeon when he came
running up behind me. He knocked me down—didn’t even see me there. Micah found
me in the hallway the next morning. He said he was out for a ‘constitutional.’”
A slow, sad smile spread over Mary’s lips and a single, heavy tear slid down
her cheek. “He said I was pretty.”
“Micah Jasperstone?”
Mary nodded slowly. “Yes. I was crying when he found me. I didn’t know he was a
Slytherin, but he was nice and asked me what was wrong. I told him everything.
He said that he wanted to help me.”
Albus tugged at his beard, looking disturbed. “And this all happened the first
night of term?”
“Yes. He told me to keep an eye on Harry—that we had to protect him. He said—he
said that Harry needed us . . . We were going to be heroes.”
Albus nodded and stood, turning to the mediwitch. “I believe that I have enough
now. But, until we know everything that she saw, I may need to speak with her
again.”
Poppy nodded and made no effort to hide her relief at being able purge the
potion from the tiny girl’s system. “There are gentler ways than Obliviate,
anyway. I doubt her mind could handle something like that right now.”
He watched the child for a long moment. “It really is for the best this way.
She does not need to deal with this pain on top of everything else. And if
anyone ever knew what she’d done, she would be tossed into Azkaban.” Part of
Fudge’s election platform had been a hard line against crime—even juvenile
crime. Azkaban was open to everyone now, not just adults.
The Headmaster nodded as though affirming the words to himself and cast the
child one more somber look before turning to go. A small hand, however, gently
touched his wrist and he turned back, arrested by the motion.
Large, doe-like eyes looked up at him and Mary’s lower lip trembled delicately.
“I only wanted him to like me.”
Albus patted the girl’s hand and gently disengaged himself. He looked back up
at Poppy, his eyes weary. “I’ve no doubt I can fully trust your discretion
regarding these matters.”
The woman snorted and waved him off tiredly as she bent to administer the serum
antidote. “Been cleaning up your messes for years now, Albus. Don’t know what
else I can do anymore.”
His lips quirked towards a wry smile and he turned and left, somber black
funeral robes swaying gently with the motion of his body.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
It was too late at night to be worrying about this sort of thing. Still, as
Minerva rubbed her eyes and frowned down the notes she’d copied, she felt no
desire to go to bed. Perhaps she was too tired to sleep.
It was a whim that had set her to looking it up. An offhand comment from Poppy:
“Anhur? That’s odd. He called Severus that once before—when he was in here for
his Blue Lotus allergy at the end of September.”
So she had gone to the Library and set about doing some research of her own. It
had been in the Ancient Myths and Magic section under ‘Egyptian Culture.’ Even
now, looking down at the scroll of information she’d copied down, she couldn’t
totally squelch the ominous feeling in her stomach.
Anhur –
“He who brings back the Distant One.” “The Slayer of Enemies.” “Sky Bearer.”
“He who leads that which has gone away.” Sky god. God of the dead. God of War.
The divine huntsman of This in Upper Egypt. The Champion of Egypt. The beloved
one of Mehit (Mekhit). Said to be the violent side of the Sun God, Ra. More
commonly known as Onouris in the Greek—identified by the Greeks with Aries. His
consort was the lioness goddess Mehit (Mekhit; also later identified with
Hathor, Sekhmet, and Bastet). He stands in the prow of the sun god Ra’s boat as
“Slayer of Enemies.” Usually manifested as a human male (though he has been
depicted as having a lion’s head), Anhur is shown as a warrior wearing a
headdress with four plumes. He wears a long embroidered robe and carries a
spear. Sometimes he holds a cord leading the sun.
In the earlier legend of the Distant Goddess, Anhur was credited with returning
the Eye of Ra to Egypt after the Ra and the goddess quarreled. The goddess—in
the form of Mehit—fled to the Nubia. Anhur was sent to retrieve her and acted
as her protector, returning the prodigal goddess to Heliopolis and saving her
from a serpent of chaos sent to assassinate her as she slept. After this, Anhur
took Mehit as his consort. Later legends replace Mehit with Hathor and Anhur
with Thoth.
Minerva worried her lower lip for a moment, staring at the parchment. Where
Potter would have heard the word ‘Anhur’ or why he would called Severus that
was a mystery, but it left a peculiar taste in her mouth. There was something
about the whole situation that just settled wrong with her, though she couldn’t
place her finger on it.
The Transfiguration Professor ran a finger over the words on the parchment, the
not-quite-dried ink smudging lightly beneath her touch. She was bloody tired of
being too little too late. Never, in all the years she’d known Severus, had she
ever seen him react as he had when they found Potter lying on the Forest floor.
He’d seemed more agitated about Potter than he was over Mr. Malfoy’s
disappearance . . . at least he had, until Albus had appeared and informed them
all that Mr. Malfoy was dead. Then the Potions Master had simply shut down,
gone completely white, and gotten out of the bed Poppy’d assigned him and
staggered off to the dungeons.
Albus’s refusal to hear anything on the subject of Severus’s increasingly
bizarre behavior only made her more curious . . . and more agitated. And she
could swear that she’d caught the man leaving Potter’s room in the Hospital
Wing more than once during the boy’s confinement. Something was obviously going
on with their resident spy and it seemed that no one even cared that the man
was falling apart at the seams.
Perhaps it was time she did a bit of spying of her own. When Severus had first
returned to teach, she’d sworn to herself that she’d look out for him this
time. She’d always felt at least somewhat responsible that she’d never been
able to fully reign in Sirius and James—especially when Sirius was sent to
Azkaban. Maybe she could have prevented that if she’d been a bit firmer with
the boys . . . or maybe not. Regrets could only go so far, and in the end they
really accomplished nothing.
But now she had a new mystery on her hands—one involving her two biggest
headaches: Severus Snape and Harry Potter. Perhaps she could kill two birds
with one stone.
A slight cough made the woman start and she jerked her hand off the scroll. On
the corner of her desk, Albus Dumbledore’s chocolate frog card looked at her in
slight reprove, bushy eyebrows lowered sharply.
“Curiosity killed the cat, my dear,” the portrait chided.
Minerva sniffed at the presumptuous candy card and picked it up as she opened
the top drawer of her desk. “Satisfaction brought her back,” she retorted
airily before dropping the card face down into the drawer.
Albus’s portrait let out a muffled squeak of indignation and Minerva tossed her
scroll of notes in atop him. She closed the drawer and locked it with a
powerful spell and then stood to return to her quarters, quietly muttering
“Nox” as she left to go to bed.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
‘
ARTICLE FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY THREE, PROVISION TWO
Never, in any circumstance, shall it be lawful for any professor, staff, or
faculty member under the employ of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
to engage in any sexual or other otherwise inappropriate interpersonal congress
with any Hogwarts student. Such relationships are grossly unequal and against
all interest of fairness and education. In the event of such occurrences, the
staff member is to be immediately relieved of their post and given over to the
justice of the Ministry, or the comparable governmental body in power, and the
student is to be expelled and returned to their guardian. There will be no
exceptions to this rule.”
Harry slammed the book closed and stared fixedly at the fire. No matter how hot
or cold it was, there was always a fire burning in here now. Dobby’s work, no
doubt. He’d mentioned a week and a half ago how much he enjoyed looking at the
flames and since then the Elf had kept the fire burning almost constantly. It
seemed unreal that he had only a week and a half ago been laying in bed, an
emotional wreck over Severus.
Now . . . Well, now he was sitting in the Common Room, an exhausted wreck.
Though this time it was no one’s fault but his own.
The clock on the Common Room wall read 1:15 in the morning, but Harry was not
the least bit tired. He’d tried to sleep, but had only tossed and turned,
feeling alternately too hot or too cold. Once two hours had passed, he’d simply
pulled on a school night robe he’d tossed onto his night stand and trudged down
to the Common Room in just his robe and pajama bottoms. After sleeping for
almost two days straight, he didn’t much think he’d be sleeping again for a
while. Besides, if he went to sleep he’d only have nightmares. Madame Pomfrey
had nearly had kittens when she found out he’d been taking Dreamless Sleep for
most of the term.
“But I only take it when I need it!”
“You shouldn’t need it at all, Potter! I don’t know what sorts of things those
relatives of yours have told you, but puberty is a very important time for a
wizard. Your body is trying to find a balance right now to help you cultivate
your full potential. Taking a potion constantly without professional
supervision can throw that balance off very easily. Not to mention that
wizarding potions are very different than muggle medicines: a body can become
dependant on them very easily—even those that are not addictive. Potions change
the magical distribution in the body. You’re lucky you haven’t managed to do
permanent damage to yourself! Now hush and let me check to see if those hands
of your hands are healing properly. You’ll be after that snitch again in no
time!”
His hands were sheathed in black gloves, the insides of which were coated in a
special healing potion that would help his skin grow back. Magical burns were
more like chemical burns than fire burns and simple spells and potions were not
enough to heal them. His hands would require time. Like his other remaining
wounds, the burns had originated from within and thus would have to heal
slowly. Still, Madame Pomfrey had worked wonders and, though it was still pink
and untried, new skin had already grown to replace the ruined, burnt skin he’d
damaged.
One black-sheathed forefinger ran over the golden lettering on the cover of the
book: Hogwarts: A History. He’d taken it from Sirius’s house before he’d left.
On the inside cover the words ‘To Regulus from Mummy. Congratulations.’ were
written in faded green ink. Before he’d opened it, the spine had never even
been cracked. He’d genuinely intended to read it when he took it—Hermione never
stopped praising the book—but somehow, after reading the rules in the back
index, he could never quite bring himself to go through the whole book.
‘In the event of such occurrences, the staff member is to be immediately
relieved of their post and given over to the justice of the Ministry, or the
comparable governmental body in power, and the student is to be expelled and
returned to their guardian. There will be no exceptions to this rule.’
The letters shined dully in the reddish fire light for a long moment, and then
Harry stood, walked calmly over to the hearth, and tossed the book into the
flames. The oily smell of burning leather immediately filled the room as the
enormous volume was consumed. Harry leaned heavily against the mantel and
watched in silence. His head ached.
Harry slipped into the workroom, his robes swirling around his ankles as he
turned to close the door. Snape looked up and froze. “Get out.”
The boy paused and turned. “We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to say to one another, Potter.” The man looked down at
whatever potion he was brewing, obviously considering the conversation over.
“Leave.”
Harry balled his hands into fists and stalked over to the table to stand in
font of the professor. He reached out and gripped the hand stirring the potion,
forcing Snape to look up at him. The man’s mouth twisted into a sneer, and
there was a curiously wild light in his eyes. “Pott—”
“My name is Harry,” the Gryffindor ground out evenly. “And weneedto talk.”
Snape jerked his hand out from beneath Harry’s and rubbed his fingers as though
burnt. “Fine. Do you want me to apologize? To say I led you astray? I apologize
then. Go to Professor McGonagall or the Headmaster and confess to them my
sins—”
“Leave off the tired martyrdom already! Do you really enjoy being the victim
that much?”
Snape leaned over the cauldron slightly, looming over Harry, and gripped the
metal edge with white-knuckled fists. “How dare—”
“We both know that you didn’t lead me anywhere,” the youth snapped before he
could get going. “If I had wanted to tell anyone I would have. I didn’t,
though. All I want is you.”
“I feel all fluttery,” the man snarled in response. He whirled around, his back
to Harry, and stalked determinedly around the table towards the fire. “I am not
discussing this.”
Harry growled in frustration. “Stop running away from me!”
The Potions Master spun to face him again, his robes swirling about his ankles
as he did so. “Then stop hounding me! We will not do this!”
“We already have! I want—”
“It doesn’t matter what you want, you dunderhead!”
“It does!” Harry snapped back, sounding terribly petulant.
“Oh?” Snape all but hissed. “And I get no choice in this?”
“You’ve made your choice,” the Gryffindor replied in a surprisingly level
voice. “Now it’s my turn and I know what I want.” He walked forward towards the
man, arms raised as though preparing to grab the professor. “Why are you
fighting this so much?”
Snape recoiled, plainly horrified. “Stop this now!”
Harry halted his advance, startled by the action, but his mouth remained set in
a grim line. “No. Not this time. You don’t get to tell me what to do this time.
I’m not running away. Not anymore.”
For a moment it looked like Snape wanted hit him, or strangle him,
orsomethingand an angry red flush crept up the man’s neck and stained his
cheeks. He made a growling noise low in the back of his throat and shuddered as
though trying to collect himself. “Don’t you understand anything?” His voice
was a rough whisper. “This has nothing to do with you or with me. This isWRONG,
Potter. Wrong in every sense of the word.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed and he planted his feet on the ground, as though the act
could help him maintain his position. “I don’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe.” Snape turned away then and rubbed a hand
over his face. He looked tired. The fire crackled. “It doesn’t matter in the
least . . .”
“It does,” Harry whispered, staring fixedly at the man’s back. “It does because
I can’t sleep at night and I can’t eat and I can’t bloody think because you’re
in my head and that has to mean something!” He ended with a gasp and looked
down, startled to see his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
“It means that you are an obsessive drama queen and I want nothing to do with
you,” the man sneered coldly.
Anger danced across the boy’s face and he took a step forward, grabbed Snape’s
upper arm and attempted to pull the man around to face him. “I’ll not be chased
away just because you’ve gotten in over your head!”
Snape spun about under his own power, nearly knocking Harry down with the
motion. His eyes seemed to glow and something like rage twisted his features.
“I cannot do this!!”
“You will! You can’t just do this to me and walk away!”
“Stupid child!” Snape snarled, advancing on him. Harry stepped back in a hasty
retreat and felt his backs of knees hit the chair in the center of the room.
“Idiot boy,” the Potions Master raged, “do you have any idea what you are
getting into? Any idea at all? I am 37 years old. I am a Death Eater. I am your
bloody Professor! And I will not be browbeaten by some silly, hormonal child!”
Harry froze, staring into the man’s eyes. Despite his tone, the look in Snape’s
eyes was the exact same one the man had given him before he’d kissed him:
hunger. The memory calmed the Gryffindor and he licked his lips unconsciously.
Snape’s gaze flickered then, darting towards the sight of Harry’s tongue
darting back into his mouth. His pupils dilated.
Harry’s spine stiffened and he gave the man a level look. “Then throw me out.”
His eyes glittered challengingly. “Throw me out. Or better yet, look me in the
eye and tell me that this was all some kind of dream, or daymare, or fantasy,
and I’ll leave and never come back.” He took a slow step forward and gently
reached out and pressed his palm against Snape’s chest. “Tell me you don’t want
me here.”
The man’s body was hotter than a furnace and beneath Harry’s palm his heart
thundered like that of a trapped animal.
Snape looked down at the hand pressed against his chest and closed his eyes
wearily. “. . . I don’t want you here, Mr. Potter.”
“My name is Harry.” The teen dropped his hand heavily. “And you didn’t look me
in the eye.”
Snape sagged in defeat. “What do you want of me?”
“I told you that I wasn’t leaving until you listened to me,” Harry said softly.
He looked down at the floor, feeling sick with frustration. “And I’m not going
to let you just throw me out.” A deep shuddering breath. He turned back to the
work table, unable to look at the man as he spoke. “So listen: I . . . I want
things. And I don’t always understand it, but I want them. And I do stupid
thing and don’t think things through. And I’ve hurt you and I’m not really sure
what I’m getting into . . . But I’ve thought about this—really thought about
it—and I want this.” He watched the firelight play dully off the curves of the
cauldron as he spoke, and felt Snape’s heat behind him. “I want you. And every
single instinct I have inside me tells me that this is right and that this is
the way things are supposed to be. I know I leap before I look. And I’m too
curious. And I can’t let go of something once I have it. But this isn’t like
that. This is something . . . different. And I want to see what it is. So stop
arguing with me and stop condemning yourself over things that I’ve already
decided on.”
The Potter heir turned slightly, expecting see Snape relent . . . look contrite
. . .anything. . . Instead, the man just looked furious.
“Do you have any idea what you are asking me? Any idea at all? This is not some
game! This is my job! My life!! Are you trying to kill me as well?”
Harry froze and all the blood drained from his face. “Is that really what you
think of me?”
For a moment Snape didn’t answer. Then his eyes hardened into dark, frozen
chips. “Don’t do this, Harry.”
“Why did you start this?” the boy demanded, looking utterly bewildered.
There was no response. The fire wheezed and crackled loudly.
“Severus?”
Silence.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, suspiciously bright, and his hands balled into fists
again. “Sirius was right about you; you’re such a fucking coward.”
Snape moved so fast, Harry wasn’t even aware of what had happened until he hit
the floor, the wind knocked out of him. His glasses skittered across the uneven
dungeon stones and a hand flew to cover his burning cheek, the loud ringing
‘crack’ resonating in his ears.
For a moment, the two stared at one another, frozen. Snape’s sallow face was
utterly white and his hand was still raised from when he’d slapped the boy. A
bit of wetness tracked its way down Harry’s cheek.
And then Snape scooped him up, trembling arms wrapped ‘round him, suffocating
him under the sweet, sour, chemical smell of potions. Arms holding him
tight—painfully tight—but holding him and not letting him go.
“Why did you make me do that?” The words were whispered in his hair and Harry
buried his face into the slope of the man’s throat and clutched at his lapels
as Snape all but collapsed into a chair. “Can’t you see that this isn’t going
to work? Can’t you—”
One of Harry’s hands suddenly snaked up to Snape’s thick, greasy hair and
jerked the man’s head down towards him, clumsily pressing their lips together.
Snape jerked his head away, but his arms tightened. Harry opened his eyes and
made a little whimper of protest, pulling Snape’s lips back down to his. If he
could just kiss him, just make himfeel—
And it was painfully obvious that he had no clue what he was doing, but then
Snape’s mouth moved over his and teeth caught his lower lip gently and
someone’s lips (his?) parted in a quiet gasp.
Snape jerked away again, and his body twisted as though trying to stand and
dump Harry on the ground and not quite making it.
“Have you lost all reason?! We cannot—”
And then the door had opened. Then Draco had walked in. Then absolutely
everything had gone wrong.
“Was that my first mistake?” he murmured to the flames. “Pushing him like that?
If I had never gone down there, would Draco still be alive?”
The fire did not reply.
Was it really only a few weeks ago that they had shared those kisses. That
Draco had been alive. That he had thought—
“Out, you sodding fool! Never speak of this again!”
Afterwards Severus had been so bitter . . . So cruel and hateful to
everyone—Harry especially. It was all so messed up. Severus blamed Harry for
Draco. Harry blamed Draco for Severus. And Draco had just wanted to help his
family.
If he hadn’t been so stupid—! If he hadn’t lost his temper when he’d seen
Jasperstone using the Cruciatus Curse. If he hadn’t—
“Harry?”
The brunet started and whirled around to see Hermione and Ron standing at the
foot of their respective dormitory stairs. “What are you two doing up?”
Hermione flushed. “I . . . ah . . . smelled a book burning . . .”
Green eye blinked owlishly behind new glasses. “You smelled a book burning?”
“The leather . . .” She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. “It has a
distinctive smell because of the way they cure it.”
The two boys eyed her with incredulity, prompting Hermione to blush even
darker. She huffed, wrapping her robe tighter around her body, and flounced
over to sit in the arm chair Harry had just vacated. “Oh, shut it.” Her hazel
eyes flashed as she turned to Ron. “And what are you doing up?”
He shrugged and sauntered over to the chair next to Hermione’s, stretching as
he went. “I woke up and Harry was gone.” He said it as though the response was
entirely self-explanatory . . . and maybe it was.
Ron’s concern, which probably would have been galling from anyone else, made
Harry smile and he eyed the redhead appraisingly. His friend had grown up a lot
over the past few years—especially now that he and Hermione were a couple. She
seemed to bring out the best in him and make him a lot more mature, while he
mellowed her harsh, uncompromising edges. Harry’s sharp gaze was met by an
equally measuring blue-eyed look from his best friend and the brunet rolled his
shoulders uncomfortably and looked away, wondering what the other teen saw. He
stepped over to the side of the fireplace and slid to the floor, back against
the wall. He crossed his legs underneath him, Indian-style, and found himself
staring at Hermione’s slightly worn white slippers.
With a nearly inaudible sigh, Harry stuck his hand in his robe pocket. Even
through the glove, he could feel the warmth of his wand. It reminded him of
Fawkes’s song somehow—like coming home. He flicked it in his pocket.
“Silencio.” He took his hand out of his pocket and scratched the back of his
head, feeling a bit sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured.
Hermione crossed her ankles and the red flannel sweep of her nightgown fell
over the tops of her slippers. “Your potion?”
Harry shrugged, feeling the stone scratch his back lightly through his thin
night robe. He pulled the robe closed over his bare chest, but it fell back
open again. “Pomfrey found out I was on Dreamless Sleep and gave me an earful
over it.” He smiled wryly. “I think she’s getting tired of my company. This
was, after all, the third time I’ve been in there since the start of term.”
Ron snorted softly. “We told you not to take it every night, you prat.”
Hermione made a clicking noise with her tongue that seemed to have preceded
every single lecture she’d given them this year and Harry interrupted her
before she could get going. The last thing he wanted right now was a lecture.
“It was either take the potion every night, or spend the day walking around
like a Dementor.”
“You could have really messed yourself up, Harry,” Hermione snapped, still
ruffled. “You need to take better care of yourself than this.”
He waved away her concern. “I’m fine. Anyway, Pomfrey says it will be a few
days yet before my body and magic rebounds and my sleeping patterns correct
themselves.” He shrugged again. “I’m okay.”
Ron was still staring at him. “You really okay, mate? With everything, I mean .
. .”
Harry looked away. “Yeah . . . I’m okay. The funeral was today. It was . . .
nice.” He nibbled on his lower lip for a moment and stared down. The fire
crackled next him and his left side felt suddenly hot, thought the right
remained cold. He rubbed his arms through his sleeves. “I spoke to Mrs. Malfoy
afterwards . . . She’s doing . . . alright, I guess . . . all things
considered.”
Hermione shifted in her seat, toed off her slippers, and tucked her legs
beneath her. The motion displayed a long, pale expanse of leg that Ron eyed
appreciatively without seeming to even notice. The girl pushed a few fly away
strands of hair out of her eyes. “What really happened? Dumbledore said that he
wanted to keep it all mum . . . We couldn’t even tell anyone else that you were
in the Hospital Wing.”
Ron’s gaze flickered to Harry from where he’d been eyeing a sliver of ankle
showing beneath Hermione’s gown. “If we hadn’t been waiting for him in his
office, he probably would have brushed us off. As it was, we already got the
run around.” There was a strange undertone to his voice—something flat—but only
Hermione noticed.
Harry simply continued studying the ground. For just an instant . . . one split
instant . . . he almost told them everything. The Prophecy. The fight in the
woods. Severus. The funeral. All of it.
But then the moment passed and the silence had stretched for far too long, and
the he was still hot and cold and it was getting late. His eyes turned to the
clock on the wall. Getting later.
He sighed heavily and untucked his legs, switching so that he was sitting with
his knees pulled up to his chest. “I’m not supposed to—”
“Talk about it,” Ron finished, sounding put out.
“Ron,” Hermione warned.
Harry looked up in irritation and felt a little sliver of anger worm its way
through the core of him. “Can we not do this tonight? Please Ron?”
Ron glared at the smaller boy for a moment before pushing himself out of his
chair in disgust. “We were worried about you, Harry. Hermione was practically
in tears when we realized that you still hadn’t come up after an hour.”
Hermione flushed dusky rose. “Ron, knock it off!”
Harry pushed himself up off the ground. Ron already towered over him, even when
he wasn’t angry. Pissed, the redhead seemed to be twice as big. It galled Harry
that he had to tip his head back to stare Ron in the eyes.
An hour? A whole hour? After you said half an hour? What were you doing before
that? He bit the inside of his cheek to keep back the words. He didn’t need a
goddamn minder—he’d never had one, never wanted one, and never needed one.
So why did it sting so badly?
He looked away from Ron and felt that awful lump in his throat return to his
throat. Hermione was standing behind the taller boy now, one hand on his
forearm as though restraining him. Harry’s eyes met hers and he looked back up
at Ron. He wanted someone standing behind him, too.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Why are you so upset?”
Ron’s ears turned red—never a good sign. “What? My best bloody friend—who’s
shut up tighter than a clam, by the way—lands himself in the Hospital Wing for
three days and then shows up looking like a necromancer’s chew toy and I’m not
supposed to worry? Merlin’s blood, Harry, you could have died—don’t you get
that? And now you come back and barely even speak to us? Okay, so you can’t
tell us what happened to land you in the Infirmary. Okay, so you don’t want to
talk about Sirius.” Harry flinched, but Ron continued undeterred. “Okay, so you
won’t tell us what happened at the muggles, but you have to tell us something!”
Harry squeezed his fists tight, his tender skin grating against the gloves with
the motion, and used the resulting discomfort to ground himself. “What do you
want me to say?” The firelight reflected weirdly off his lenses, totally
obscuring his eyes.
“I want you stop bloody hiding from us!” Ron exploded. He jerked his arm out of
Hermione’s grip and advanced on the smaller teen, who retreated despite
himself.
Hermione made as though to step between him and Harry, but a sharp look from
her boyfriend seemed to quell her. Still, she gripped the front of her robes
closed with white knuckled fists. “We discussed this!” she snapped at the
youngest Weasley son. “We said that we wouldn’t do this to him! He’s tired!”
The Keeper spun to face her. “He’s always tired! And you’re always sad! And
I—I’m—” A low growl slid out of his throat and he turned back to Harry. “Do you
have any idea how bloody hard we’re trying? Any idea at all how hard it is to
be Harry Potter’s best friends?”
Do you have any idea how hard it is to be Harry Potter? But the words would not
leave Harry’s throat. His hands opened, finger’s slack, and he found that if he
looked straight ahead, he was actually staring at Ron’s throat. The Keeper
would probably have a whole head on him come summer.
The ragged hero looked at his friend’s Adam’s apple for a moment, Hermione’s
pale face and flushed cheeks floating in the nighttime shadows that the fire
could not hold at bay just out of the corner of his eye.
“Ask me then.” His voice sounded thin and tired. “Ask.” Something. Anything.
Ask.
The fire popped.
It was Hermione who finally broke the silence. Her voice sounded steady and
clear and it occurred to him that she was always steady and clear when he
needed it the most.
“Snape.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry countered darkly, withdrawing
slightly and crossing his arms over his exposed chest.
“Yes, you do.” Her voice remained level. “Last year, you hated him. This year,
your world comes tumbling down if he insults you in class. At the end of last
term you looked at him like you might kill him. This year, you look at him as
though he were the Holy Grail.”
The teen shook his head slightly and took a step back. His lips were parted,
but he remained silent.
Hermione took a slow step forward, stepping between Ron’s thunderous scowl and
Harry. “And he’s different, too. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He actively avoids
you in the halls. He comes to see you—”
Harry’s head shot up.
Hermione set her jaw, knowing she’d won something, but not sure quite what.
“Snape was there to see you while you were . . . asleep. He looked awful.”
A shooting pain shot up Harry’s nose. No, not this! Not tonight! He closed his
eyes against a blurriness he refused to acknowledge.
Hermione plunged onward, unable to decipher the tight look on his face. “He
spoke to you sometimes when he thought no one was there. It was in a different
language.”
The scent of parchment and gingerbread and ink and old, moldy books and
Hermione suddenly flooded Harry’s senses as the girl stepped closer. He turned
away. A cold hand brushed his left cheek in an achingly familiar gesture. “Why
won’t you let us help you?”
The frustration in her voice made him ache inside.
Harry looked up again and suddenly Hermione understood the expression ‘deer in
the headlights.’
“I don’t need anyone’s help.” He remained trapped by her bewildered gaze for a
moment and blurted out the only thing he could think of: “I’m sorry.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed.
Harry whirled, turning towards the portal that led out of the Common Room, but
Hermione grabbed his arm. Ron was right: they were all an absolute mess and she
wasn’t about to let Harry leave until they got this fixed. “Stop running!”
“Let me go,” Harry snapped in response, trying to jerk his arm. Something like
rage sprang up in him. He made no attempt to rein it in. He was so bloody tired
of trying to rein in his temper. “I told you everything I have to say! Just
stay the bloody hell out of it!”
“That’s enough, mate,” Ron hollered, seeing Harry’s struggle against Hermione
increase. Harry may have been small, but he was strong as hell when he started
fighting for something. Stronger than he probably realized. One did not spend
six years whipping about on brooms and getting into various wrestling matches
in the dorms without developing some kind of physique. Ron had seen Harry do
things on a broom that took a lot of muscle and he had no desire to see that
muscle used against his girlfriend.
He reached out and gripped the back of Harry’s open robes, practically hiking
the boy off the ground. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea. His brothers
had been forever picking him up by the back of his jumper when he was younger
and he’d hated it. He did not, however, expect Harry to whirl around as though
bitten. Clothe ripped, Ron stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and Hermione
fell to the floor. Her shoulder glanced off the corner of one of the chairs and
she cried out in pain. The sound froze both Ron and Harry in their tracks.
Harry took a step towards her, a frantic look on his face. “‘Mi—”
Ron gripped his forearm hard and tossed the boy backward, nearly throwing him
down. He dropped down beside Hermione, his eyes running a cursory check over
the girl before he whirled to Harry, his face a mask of anger. He wanted to
shake him, to throttle him, to hurt him worse that he had hurt them.
“What are you on about—”
But when Ron looked up, the only the only thing he could see was the back of
the Fat Lady’s portrait as it silently swung closed. For a moment he stood,
trembling with anger and the overwhelmingly helpless frustration that had
seemed to have been growing inside him since September. A sniffle arrested his
attention and he immediately crouched down, gathering Hermione’s comparatively
tiny frame into his arms. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her
face into his throat.
“I pushed too hard,” she murmured.
“I didn’t push enough,” he countered.
She laughed then, the tempo of her shuddering shoulders changing. “Must you
always disagree with me?”
He kissed the top of her head and rocked her slightly. “Just trying to keep you
on your toes, ‘Mione,” he murmured into that eternally busy hair he loved so
much.
The arms around his neck tightened in a painful hug and he held his girlfriend
close by the firelight, rocking her back and forth and silently cursing the day
Severus Snape was born.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“
WHAT PART OF SUBTLE ESCAPES YOU?!
”
The shriek echoed off the rotted walls of the ballroom and the candles
flickered ominously. Lord Voldemort was so mad, he couldn’t even hiss. Instead
he sputtered and spat like a too-full teakettle past its boiling point. To her
credit, Narcissa did not flinch as she knelt before her husband’s master. She
was just lucky to have avoided Voldemort’s rage on Tuesday night and Wednesday.
No one was quite sure whether or not Micah Jasperstone would ever regain full
usage of the left side of his body and Crabbe senior had been entered into St.
Mungo’s suffering from the affects of an as yet unknown Dark Curse.
Nagini shifted at Voldemort’s feet, bits of flaky skin peeling off as she shed.
Somehow the snake managed to look positively sulky and she hissed in discontent
at the noise. Voldemort ignored her.
“BE GRATEFUL THAT JASPERSTONE MANAGED TO DRAG THE MIRROR ONTO THE GROUNDS, ELSE
I’D HAVE DESTROYED THE LOT OF YOU!!! I SHOULD KILL YOU THIS VERY INSTANT!! YOUR
SON—YOUR ACCURSED BRAT COULD HAVE RUINED MY PLANS—”
“My son is dead,” Narcissa interrupted in a cold voice, her forehead pressed
against the ground, still kneeling. “My son is dead and Lucius has gone mad.”
She slowly sat upright, but remained on her knees. “I have come to request a
favor, my Lord.”
Voldemort stood from his throne, the expression on his reptilian face
indecipherable. He walked slowly down from the dais, descending with
preternatural grace, to loom over Narcissa. Her red rimmed blue eyes met his
assessing gaze calmly. A long fingered hand extended and cupped Narcissa’s
chin. The powerful digits squeezed her pale skin painfully.
“Your impetuous spawn nearly ruins me and you come to me begging a favor?” His
low, cruel hiss was all the more disturbing for the previously violent noise
he’d been making.
Still, Narcissa did not relent.
“Yes, my Lord.”
A low, rough hiss crawled from out of the Dark Lord’s gullet and it took her a
moment to recognize it as low key laughter. Voldemort’s free hand traced the
line of her throat, and slipped down past her jeweled necklace to delve into
her low-cut bodice. Long, cold fingers slipped in between her cleavage and slid
over the smooth rise of her flesh till it happened upon its goal. A brilliant
red flush of shame stained Narcissa’s face while the rest of her face paled
dramatically as the Dark Lord rolled and twisted her right nipple beneath the
confines of her gown. He watched her expression hungrily, but there was no lust
in his eyes, merely a desire to humiliate her.
A breathy cry worked its way out of her throat after a few moments, then a
moan. Her face flushed entirely with mortification as the sensations running
through her and she dropped her gaze, even as her legs spread open a bit
against her will.
Voldemort withdrew his hand with another hissing laugh and smirked down at the
woman at his feet, his many sharp teeth on prominent display. “Sssspeak, whore.
Asssk me your . . . ‘favor.’”
It took all of Narcissa’s willpower not to just Apparate out of there,
propriety be damned. Except that she could still feel the weight of her son’s
corpse in her arms. Tears sprang to her eyes and she forced them back. She had
cried rivers this week. No mother should ever have to bury her child. She bowed
again, pressing her forehead against the floor again in supplication.
“Revenge, my Lord.”
The hem of the black robes swaying just out of the corner of her eyes halted.
“Revenge, Lady Naccissa . . .? Against who?”
The words staggered out of her throat like a wounded animal: “Harry Potter and
Albus Dumbledore.”
For a long moment there was silence. Then the robes began to sway again as
Voldemort resumed his pacing in front of her. “Exssplain . . .” he hissed
softly, sounding almost contemplative.
“Harry Potter bounced back the Curse that killed my son and Albus Dumbledore
failed to protect him!” Her voice sounded crazed and raw and she bit her lip to
hold back the flood of rage brewing in her.
“Sssit up, Lady.” One of those awful hands gently rested on her hair, smoothing
back a few strands that had come undone. Then the same hand slid down and
cupped her chin again, gently this time. He tipped her head back and met her
gaze. “Are you truly willing to do anything to accomplish this?”
She swallowed heavily. “It is all I have, my Lord.”
He eyed her speculatively a moment and then whirled around, turning towards his
makeshift throne again. “Bellatrix! Wormtail!”
The doors behind the dais opened after a moment, revealing the two Death
Eaters. They immediately bowed as Voldemort approached them and then stood as
the three of them held conference for a moment. Narcissa dropped her head and
stared at the rotted carpeting, exhausted. A drop of sweat slid down her back,
clinging to the heavy ribs of her corset.
Voldemort returned after a moment, holding a vial of thick gold liquid in his
hand. Pettigrew and Bellatrix were walked behind him. Nagini snapped lazily at
the rat as he passed. The two Death Eaters silently took up stations just
behind Narcissa as the Dark Lord stopped in front of her.
“Blood,” he hissed fingering the vial almost lovingly, “is the ultimate seal.
It bindss parent and child, loverss, and is used in the most powerful of
spellss.” His red-eyed gaze flickered to the woman kneeling at his feet. “I
require this seal from you, Lady Narcissa. As the blood of your sson bound you
to Potter, so now will the blood of your husssband bind you to me.”
Narcissa made no move.
Voldemort held out the vial and smiled coldly. “You hussband is of no use to
either of uss anymore, my Lady. Kill him, and I promise that you will have your
revenge. Pity . . . He was an excellent servant . . .” For a moment he looked
lost in thought, then he seemed to shake himself and turned back to Narcissa.
“Wormtail and Bellatrix will accompany you in this. They will sstand as my
witnessss.” His eyes narrowed and he waggled the vial in warning. “If you
should fail me in this as well, there will be no more second chances for the
Malfoy House.”
Cold, but steady, a fine-boned hand reached out and accepted the poison. “Yes .
. . Master.”
Voldemort smiled and his wand suddenly appeared in his right hand. Narcissa
extended her left arm and clenched her jaw as the expensive black silk of her
gown was ripped away. The cold, tapered tip of the wand was pressed against her
exposed flesh near the bend of her elbow.
“Do you accccept this Mark freely and with your whole heart?” The formal words
sounded awkward and ungainly in that voice.
Darkness, writhing like cold black tentacles, gathered at the tip of the wand.
“I do.” Narcissa’s voice remained strong and clear.
Behind her, Pettigrew and Bellatrix knelt behind Narcissa, bowing low to the
ground. Their voice, also awkward with formality sounded in unison: “We here
bear witness.”
The Malfoy matriarch squeezed her eyes shut tightly and prayed to gods she had
never believed in that she was making the right choice.
“Morsmordre!”
And then she screamed.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
The knock on my door startles me out of an uneasy, shadow-filled sleep and for
a moment I don’t know where I am. My hand clutches convulsively around the
glass I fell asleep holding after I’d finally cleaned up, barely saving it from
an abrupt end. It’s been too long since I truly slept and I feel as though I’m
wrapped in a strange fog when I stagger to my feet and somehow stumble to the
door, nearly getting tangled in my night robe on the way. When I open the door,
it takes a long moment before I understand what I’m seeing. The fact that it
doesn’t disturb me should worry me more than it does.
Children, after all, have a curious kind of beauty: silent eyes, round-cheeked,
and unjaded, they have a look to them that brings to mind only the future, not
the cruel, spotty past. Harry Potter is beautiful too, but he is not a child.
He is not round-cheeked or wide-eyed, or unjaded. My poor Harry Potter. But
he’s beautiful and tonight that is reason enough for me to open wide my door to
him when he appears, ragged, torn, and eyes red-rimmed at my chambers at 2 in
the morning.
My poor Harry Potter.
So I open my door and watch him for a brief moment, the brandy snifter filled
with water in my right hand and the doorknob cool and metal in my left.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper wearily, too tired to fight him. Too tired
to remember why I want to fight him. Or at least should want to fight with him.
Draco Malfoy is dead, I have only water to fill my brandy glass, and Harry
Potter is standing in my doorframe, torn robes hanging off him like a portrait
of the Passion of the Christ. When did this become my life?
When did I cease to care?
He stares up at me for a moment, perfect lips parted enticingly, and then
literally throws himself into my arms. Supple, wiry boy arms wind themselves
around my neck and pull me down closer to his height and the glass in my hand
slides out from between my fingers, shattering on the stone floors of the
dungeon with a short-lived crash. My own arms wrap obligingly around his too
thin waist, memorizing his plains and curves, the boney angles of his prominent
pelvic bones pressing into the top of my thighs.
“Harry, Harry . . .” I whisper into his wild black hair, because he’s here and
mine and alive and I cannot stop touching him. This must be a dream.
That’s it. I fell down while I was cleaning up my quarters, dashed my head
against the stone, and am in a coma.
His mouth drifts along the line of my throat as he raises his head and whispers
words I can barely make out. “Please . . . Please don’t let me go . . .”
And then he kisses me.
It feels real.
My hands tangling in that black bird nest, one leg sliding between his, tongue
pushing past those reddened lips, messy and without a moment’s hesitation, I
kiss him. He knees trembled as though in a swoon and he presses down against
me, supported only by my hand and knee and those skinny, surprisingly strong
arms wrapped ‘round my neck. He tastes like salt water and copper, but the
remnants of butterscotch are strong in my own mouth and the combination fills
my senses better than any brandy or cognac ever could. Teeth and tongues and
hot moisture slipping down his cheeks to stain both our faces.
He pulls away panting and buries his face in the crook of neck. He has to stand
on his toes to do so comfortably, but he fits there perfectly. I drag him into
my rooms and the door slams shut behind us.
He presses forward, pushing his body into mine as though afraid I’ll vanish if
every possible inch of him isn’t touching me. Perhaps I will.
I tug down his night robes, practically tearing at them until they pool in a
puddle of worn fabric at his ankles.
“Severus—” He’s muttering things into my neck that I can’t hear and pressing
clumsy awkward kisses against me. He arches against me when my hand ghosts down
his back and gasps. “Touch me.”
So I kiss him again, pulling him closer as his lips open, once more drawing me
in. My hands travel down his back, slide into the loose, too large band of his
pants, gripping and pulling at every inch of his flesh that I can touch. And
it’s not enough. So I grip his hair and pull his head back and claim and claim
and claim his mouth with the slide of my tongue and the soft clatter of teeth
until he trembles against me. And it’s not enough. So I slide my free hand down
his sweat slicked back (so smooth! so easy!) to tug at the top of his pants. It
takes no effort to pull them off (so easy!), and jerk down the band of his
underpants, (so good!) down to touch him, down, down, down . . .
A rogue finger follows the natural curve of his body to press hard against the
puckered curve of muscle his body hides and his arse clenches convulsively
around the intrusion. He tears his lips from mine. “Severus!” Green eyes stare
up at me in panic, but those hips are undulating against me, hardness pressed
against me—
And, oh God! How did I deny myself this?
Mine, mine, mine. This is all mine and no one will have it, no one will touch
it because it’s mine and I’ll kill them first. MINE.
“Severus . . . Severus . . . Severus.”
So I kiss him. There is an air of frenzy about it all—all sweat, and panting,
and the crush of bodies . . . And, oh Merlin, he smells like grass, and dust
and sunlight. He feels like damp silk, hot and clinging. Oh, Merlin . . .
Not this way! Not this way!
I didn’t want it to be this way—this banal, but I can’t stop.
“Severus . . .” he whimpers.
And I can’t stop.
I kiss and bite at him—his cheeks, his throat, anything my mouth can touch—and
gently press my finger against his entrance again, massaging, nothing more. He
bucks and writhes and whimpers in frustration.
Beautiful.
One of those hands slips free of my neck, fumbling around for my wrist. “Not
yet! Not—oh!—tonight! Can’t—”
Something ugly rears up in my at the denial, something that wants to throw him
down and take what he came in here and threw at my feet. Something that—
Shrivels and fades away at the sight of green eyes.
My hand withdraws and I press him against me: holding him, nothing more.
Nothing more.
He shudders in my arms, trembling as he gasps for air. I keep one hand pressed
against his lower back, stilling his hips until his erection softens against my
thigh as he calms. My free hand runs through his messy hair. Somehow his hands
have latched onto my lapels and his knuckles are white. He burrows impossibly
closer to me and a ghost of sensation whispers over the erection I didn’t know
I had.
I pull away, needing the space, and he stiffens at the swell of cold air that
rushes between us.
I close my eyes, try to think of particularly vile potions ingredients, and
look up at him. “Are you a vir—”
The words die in my throat.
He’s naked.
I can feel my eyes widen to what has to be comical proportions, but he’s naked.
Harry Potter . . . is naked. In my rooms.
How did I let that little detail slip my mind?
But there he is . . . flushed, awkward, and . . . naked.
Wide green eyes stare at me through those classy new glasses above a flush of
lust and shame and small hands twitch as though longing to cover himself. His
throat is long, a prominent Adam’s apple softened by the light of the fire and
his nipples are two soft, flat pink-colored things that I can almost feel my
mouth watering to bite. His ribs show and he’s almost unappealingly skinny and
unfinished, like a pale clay Adonis that some a lazy Michelangelo just didn’t
want to put all the effort into. Almost no dark hair swirls on his chest or
sunken stomach, but a perfect thatch of black, wiry curls is nestled between
his legs. Uncircumcised and unremarkable, his cock lays languid against his
barely parted thighs, hiding everything but the barest glance of flushed
testicles. There’s nothing particularly special about him, but I can literally
feel my mouth begin to water. It seems like the best thing I’ve ever seen. The
shine of a small smear goes from the very tip of his semi-erect penis to his
leg and I force my gaze down to muscular legs and flat, broad feet that don’t
seem nearly as important.
“You’re a virgin?” It sounds like I’m choking rather than speaking, but he
understand me perfectly and responds with a flush that goes clear down to his
nipples, which perk right up in response.
Holy God.
Of course he is. Who would dare corrupt Harry Potter?
The idea of being the first person to touch all that perfect, unclaimed skin is
even more of an aphrodisiac than that blushing cock, though. I swallow and tear
my eyes away, thanking whatever demon that haunts me that I indulged earlier
today or I’d have surely fallen down dead by now. I stagger to a chair and sit
down before I fall down and gesture for him to follow me. He does so with no
hesitation and again my eyes fly to his wilted erection, swaying—
I grab him the moment he’s within reach, jerking him down into my lap, his legs
perpendicular to my own. He knows nothing—absolutely nothing—and I remind
myself of that as he drops down on me. Nothing too fast. Nothing too rough.
Nothing too harsh. He needs to learn . . .
He stiffens as he sits right down on my erection, and those marvelous kiss-
bruised lips make a little ‘o’ of surprise. Green eyes look up at me beneath
the curtain of messy bangs and black eyelashes. His gaze is rapt on my face,
which surely has to betray what little control I have left—and then he bounces.
And moans in surprise as he presses the tight, bare cleft of his arse against
the straining fabric of my pajamas bottoms.
Loathsome. Fucking. Brat
It takes all my self control not to just throw him down and ram into him until
he bleeds.
Instead, I wrap my left arm around the front of his waist, hiding his tempting
cock from my gaze, and holding his hips tight to my lap. My right arm comes up
from behind his back and gently presses his head down to my shoulder. He
writhes to protest his bondage, but cannot escape, and quits the attempt
entirely when I slowly lift my hips, allowing him to adjust to the sensation
he’s so obviously craving.
“Severus . . .” His lips brush my throat.
I thrust up again, slowly so as not to dislodge him.
He smells like sex and dusty places and I press my face into his hair and
pretend I’m not committing a crime. My left hand moves from the slope of his
hip to his left thigh, thumb gliding slowly over the base of his penis, before
coming to rest on the hot inside of his leg. Teeth catch at my throat and my
fingers rub a slow circular pattern on his skin as the fingers of my right hand
bury themselves in his hair.
I pitch my voice low. “Do you touch yourself?”
My hand slips down between his legs, knuckles brushing against his reawakening
erection until the very tip of my middle finger presses against something soft,
and warm. He moans and tries to press up as the tip of my fingers whisper just
above his balls. Those pale thighs fall open easily.
“Yesssssss . . .”
He sits bolt upright when my hand suddenly withdraws to wrap tight around his
penis, and his hips jerk violently. I grip him hard and lean forward to catch
his earlobe. “What do you think of?”
A desperate fluttering hand, unnaturally pink—almost raw-looking, really—wraps
around my left hand, squeezing it to try and squeeze himself. “Severus.”
He’s whining.
I twist my hand around him, earning something between a groan and a scream, and
his hips jerk as the crescents of his nails dig into my hand. I nip his ear
harder in chastisement, savoring his whimper as my breath ghosts over his ear.
His impossibly small hands grapple with my larger one, trying to force it to
move over his swollen erection.
“Watch,” I order. I want him to know what I’m doing to him. I want him to see
himself lose control.
His head drops down heavily and enormous, widely dilated green eyes lock onto
our hands as they wrap around him. His nostrils flare at the scent of his own
desire. My gaze follows his and I have to look away and lightly bite down on
the juncture of his shoulder to force away the image of the blushing tip of his
penis peeking out from the press of our hands.
“Now tell me,” I urge him breathlessly, promising him more with a gentle tug.
“You! I t—think of you!”
His right hand grips my knee in an attempt to get more leverage and he tries to
push himself into my hand. I hold him tight, thwarting the act. I can feel my
palm sweating, encouraged by the hot, firm brand of his cock in my hand. My
right hand grip tightens in his hair, forcing him to continue watching as I
fondle him.
He groans at the sight and tries to press himself down against me. “Y—you throw
me on your lab table!” His breath is coming in obscene little pants, forcing
him to stutter and gasp as my hand slowly begins to stroke up and down his
arousal with long, firm motions.
I swipe my thumb roughly over the leaking tip and nuzzle his bruised, bitten
throat, incapable of words. “Mmmm?”
“Ohhh!” He pushes down on my hand, knuckles white. “You push up my robes
and—and rip off my pants . . .”
“No underwear?” I bite his neck again, gentler this time, and suckle the
saltiness there. I press firmly on the tip of his erection again, earning a
violent tremor. “Naughty.”
His left hand twists around mine, the plea for more made painfully obvious by
the motion. “And you t—tell me that you’re going f—fuck me.” The word staggers
out of swollen lips and I nearly come.
He pants and moans shamelessly now, pushing against me like an oversexed mink,
aroused by his own obscenity.
My hand speeds up and I thrust my hips against him unintentionally, needing to
be rougher—violent. Needing him to not feel so damned breakable. “I’m going to
fuck you, am I?” The purr is a growl and he twists like a snake in my arms.
“Y—yes!”
“Fucking whore!” the hiss escapes me as he jerks his hips, rubbing against my
aching erection as he tries to work my hand over his own. He makes a noise that
sounds like a growl and tips his head back.
“Whore!”
He loves it and I can’t stop touching him and biting him and his pink hands
grip mine hard, urging on the tempo and he won’t shut up, panting like a bitch
in heat.
“Oh, God—oh, god, y—you’re going to tear me apart!”
My hand is cramping, but he’s so obviously close, so obviously mine. It would
take so little . . . “Tell me, Mr. Potter . . .” I squeeze him hard. “Do you
think I could fuck you so hard you’d beg in parseltongue?” And Twist.
For a split second his head tips back and he nearly falls before I can catch
him. Then he bucks and keens at the same time and hot, sticky, wetness boils
over our hands, overwhelming with the scent of something sharp, bitter, and
both new and familiar.
I stare down, feeling nothing but satisfaction and . . . conquest . . . as the
fading, sporadic spurts of Harry’s Potter’s pleasure pour out onto our laps and
stain my pajamas pants. The boy—young man—lays limp and exhausted, still
sitting perfectly beside my body. Fitting me.
I want to hate him.
I want to rub myself off on him.
I want rest.
He yawns and tucks his head beneath my chin, obviously settling in for the
night.
I’ve no heart to move him.
I carefully unwrap my left hand, disengaging it from his sticky hand and
softened penis, and make a short, hook like gesture, reminiscent of a wand
flick. “Scourgify”
Harry does not react as the mess vanishes. He’s asleep.
“Bad form,” I murmur softly into his hair. I wrap my arms tight around him.
“Falling asleep on your . . .”
Lover? Partner? Molester? Professor?
The sentence dies on my lips.
I lean back into my chair, both sated and unsatisfied and hold his tiny,
trembling frame tight. Exhaustion wilts my own erection, age betraying me
despite the warm weight resting in my lap. The fire continues to crackle as
though I have not done something unforgivable.
I grip Harry tighter, as though someone were waiting in the wings to seize him
from me. He’s mine now. No matter what else, he’s mine.
And that’s all that can be.
“Why did you come here?” I whisper into the silence.
He trembles and I almost drop him, realizing that he’s chuckling. The little
sneak. “. . . Because the only thing that I know I want is you,” he murmurs
muzzily.
My mouth moves silently and something like despair flashes through me. I grip
him hard, intending to throw him on the floor, throttle him, fuck him, anything
. . . But he is already asleep.
And then I find that I cannot move at all.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
She knew before she entered that he would be huddled in the corner. It was only
the magic of the House Elves that kept him clean and fed. Diggle—the Elf who
normally kept the basement—sat guard by the door. No one was allowed in or out
of the room except for Narcissa, and she rarely came by at all anymore.
The man that she had married was dead, a casualty of fanaticism and idealism.
Narcissa stopped in front of the large circular door that led to the room where
her husband was kept. Behind her, Wormtail shifted anxiously and Bellatrix
muttered a steady stream of profanities almost absently.
Hard blue eyes turned to the shoddily clad Elf by the door. He looked up at her
with mournful yellowish-green eyes.
“Open the door.” Her voice was rough and throaty from screaming.
The House Elf hopped to obey, using the magic particular to his species to
remove the heavy Wards that kept the former Master of the House locked in. The
Malfoy matriarch set her jaw as the door creaked outward with terrible
slowness.
Bellatrix chuckled at nothing. “Have so missed your dear, dear husband,
Cousssin . . .” the former beauty hissed spitefully.
Narcissa turned, ignoring the agony the motion sent through her inflamed left
arm, and stared coldly at the remnants of her cousin. She and Bella had been
close once . . . before Azkaban had twisted the woman into . . . this.
Narcissa, Regulus, and Bellatrix . . . Those had been the days. Lucius by her
side and every woman in the room simultaneously loathing them and wishing they
were them. And perfect, angelic Draco swaddled in green silk in her arms. She
looked at her cousin with empty eyes before turning away.
Three of the greatest families in the Wizarding world brought to ruin . . . It
was enough to make one wish she was born a squib.
“Can we get on with this, please?!” Pettigrew squeaked, looking as perpetually
terrified as ever.
“Come,” Narcissa murmured, the vial cold and solid in her right hand. She
stepped through the door, and Diggle shut it behind them.
A House Elf named Quipple popped into appearance as the door boomed shut.
Quipple was charged with looking after Master Malfoy. There was a second pop as
Skiff—the Head Steward—appeared. The two both bore grim expression, both
prepared to protect the Mistress and her guests. Narcissa ignored them.
It took only a few moments for her eyes to adjust (Lucius couldn’t bear any
significant amount of light anymore), but it was nothing but iron willpower
that kept her on her feet at the sight of her husband. True to form, Lucius was
curled in a fetal ball in a corner, what little clothing he wore torn and
mangled by his own struggles against imaginary demons. Self inflicted cuts
adorned his body. The Elves had taken to cutting his nails once a day to
prevent them from growing to any length that he could use to damage himself
further. When he had begun to dash his head against the walls it was also the
Elves who stopped him. The Elves stopped him from trying to strangle himself
with his clothing. The Elves stopped him from trying to eat his own filth. The
Elves stopped him from gnawing at his arms
The only thing keeping him alive was the Elves.
That was no way for a Malfoy to live. He would have hated it. He would have
destroyed himself.
“Stay here,” the blonde whispered to her companions. Once she was certain
they’d obey, she slowly approached her husband, still shadowed by the wary
Skiff and Quipple.
“Luc?”
The man stirred at the sound of his wife’s voice.
Narcissa slowly knelt beside him, but didn’t dare reach out to touch him yet.
“Luc? Are you awake?”
He rolled over and she braced herself, trying to prepare for the screaming
madness that had greeted her during her previous visit. Instead, child-like
grey eyes stared up her blurrily. She closed her eyes in pain and felt
something hot, wet, and damning slide down her cheek.
A bitten-at, red knuckled hand rose unsteadily to push away the tear. Lucius
smiled at her, but the expression in his eyes was wild and terrified, giving
him the shine of madness. “ Lo,‘Ciss,” he greeted in a droll, grating sort of
voice.
Narcissa caught his hand and squeezed it. The pain in her arm had nothing on
this. “’Lo, Luc,” she whispered huskily. She didn’t fight the tears anymore.
“Is it Christmas yet?” he asked her solemnly, watching the dim magical lights
of the room shine off her tears. “Draco will be home at Christmas and I’m going
to get him a new broom so that he’s not angry with me anymore.” He blinked
tiredly. “You know I hate it when you cry.”
Narcissa forced a small smile. “Draco’s not cross with you anymore, love. He
said . . . he misses you and can’t wait to come home.”
Lucius smiled that unnerving smile once more. “He’s such a good boy.”
Narcissa looked away. “I need you to drink something, Luc. It will make you
feel better.” She uncorked the vial with shaking hands, narrowly avoiding
spilling the contents, and held it out to his lips.
A surprisingly strong hand rose to steady her and her breath caught painfully
in her chest as theirs eyes met. He tipped back the contents of the vial and
swallowed it without hesitation.
The effect was immediate. A violent shudder wracked the man’s body and for a
moment it looked as though he was going to vomit. Then Lucius’s eyes widened in
shock and he opened his mouth as though preparing to scream, but instead
viscous greenish gray bubble slowly rose out of his throat and hovered for an
instant on his lips. It popped loudly, smelling of bile and blood, and he went
abruptly still.
Narcissa stared for a moment, unable to believe that it had happened so
quickly. The cork of the vial rolled out of her hand and she stared down at the
Seal atop it.
Snape.
The man was nothing if not efficient. She turned away and found herself staring
at her two watchers. She’d almost forgotten they were there.
She eyes narrowed and she couldn’t stop her face from twisting hatefully.
“Satisfied?” she spat, desperately wishing that they couldn’t see the tears on
her cheeks.
Bellatrix was grinning. She pointed her wand at Lucius’s body, still grinning.
“Crucio.”
Nothing happened.
The woman’s smile dropped abruptly and she looked suddenly petulant. “Crucio!”
Still there was no reaction. Dead men cannot, after all, be tortured.
“Fine,” Bella sniffed, looking like a child deprived of a treat.
“Good,” Narcissa hissed. “Now get the hell out of my house.”
A tic jumped below Bellatrix right eye, but she spun around sharply and stalked
out, Wormtail scampering after.
Narcissa turned back to her husband, ignoring the sound of the door opening and
closing. She swallowed roughly and brushed the tears from her eyes and then set
about closing his eyes and mouth. There was a spell to ease the faces of the
dead, but she could not recall it and instead tried to soothe that awful look
of anguished surprise off his face with trembling fingers before his flesh
stiffened and froze. She tucked his hair, usually pristine but now in wild
disarray, behind his ears in a futile effort to bring him some dignity.
Then she was still, unable to do anything more, but unable to leave him either.
Her left arm ached fiercely.
The woman brushed her husband’s cheek tenderly and felt her face crumble. “I
have loved you my entire life . . .”
The words sounded weak and thin in the small, dim room.
From the shadows, the Elves watched in tearful silence.


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

***** The Dolphin-Torn Sea *****
Chapter Notes

                        Where the Heart Moves the Stone
                 - Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                            10.7.2003 – 09.26.2004

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
     Standard_Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and
     all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered
     trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The
     Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not
     profiting from this.
     Warnings: SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence, & language.
     Kudos and thanks must go to my beta reader: the effervescent
     LadyDeathFarie.
     Thank you to everyone who’s read and much love to all the reviewers.
     This is the final chapter in Part I of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc,
     but Part II is already in the works. I’m going to take some time off
     the Arc for a bit to work on some gift fics that can be found both on
     my LJ and on Skyehawke.com due to naughty bits. ^_^ I know it’s been
     a long STRANGE trip up till now, but remember, we’re only halfway
     there. There’s still nine more versus to go and things are nowhere
     NEAR resolved for any of the players in this story yet.
     Again, thank you all so much, and—as always—please review.
     - Hanakai


                     *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                               ~ Chapter Eight ~
                             The Dolphin-Torn Sea

                     *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                                 “Come rhythm,
                                 Come silence,
                             Come into our shame.
                             The fear has no heart
                           And the fear has no name.

                              Come sing alleluia,
                              Come sing dominae.
                              Come sing alleluia,
                               Come sing . . .”

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

“I ask that you relieve me of my duties as Potions Master, Albus.”
The Headmaster looked up, his expression grave. He opened his mouth hesitantly
to say something, but then paused when he caught sight of the young man
standing in the doorway. He watched him for a moment with an unreadable
expression. Finally, the older man settled back in his chair and pushed aside
the budget report he’d been looking over. “Come in, Severus, and let us talk.”
For an instant, the professor seemed to hesitate, but then he swept in with a
sniff of distaste and eyed the dozing portraits warily. Severus was pale, but
calm. Totally collected. There was no wildness in his eyes, nor did his hands
shake. He sat down uninvited and settled stiffly into the high-backed chair in
front of Albus’s desk. A heavily laden tea tray appeared next to him with the
signature pop of Elf magic. Both men ignored it.
Albus watched his Potions Master with an inscrutable expression for several
long moments. Then he turned away and waved his wand towards the fireplace. The
flames leapt up higher. The headmaster turned back to his companion: “I am
sorry to hear about your father, Severus—”
“I’m not,” the sallow-skinned man interrupted sharply. “He was a bastard. He
was always a bastard.”
“Severus—”
He waved away the Headmaster’s reprove. “That is hardly why I’ve come and you
know it.” Their eyes locked for a moment and he gave the other man a hard,
uncompromising look. “I have come to resign, Headmaster. For once in your life,
please be kind enough to respect my decision and give me a straight answer.”
A pale, fine-boned hand fished into the belled sleeves of his robe and removed
a scroll. He set it down on his employer’s desk and leaned back in the chair,
looking somehow relieved now that he had said his piece.
Albus looked down at the scroll on his desk with the loose consideration a
botanist would give a new species of flesh eating plant: interested, but wary.
His blue eyes flickered back to Severus and half moon glasses flashed as he
leaned forward and gingerly lifted up the scroll. He held the letter in his
hand for a moment, feeling the thick, expensive parchment beneath his skin, and
then he turned slightly and tossed the scroll into the flames. It was consumed
instantly.
Severus’s face tightened. His jaw clenched and ominously dark eyes bore into
his employer, sharp and assessing. The fire popped loudly. After a moment, he
slumped slightly in his seat and stared fixedly at the other man. “I have done
monstrous things in my life, Albus.” His voice was soft, dark, and low. “This,
I would do right by.”
“By leaving?”
Severus’s fist landed hard on the arm of his chair. “By compromising myself no
more than necessary! I cannot leave him behind! Don’t you think I would if I
were able? I would sooner tear the veins from my own flesh one by one—it would
amount to the same!”
The Headmaster tugged his beard; his eyes sparkled curiously in the firelight,
but his face remained carefully blank. “Then it seems we have no more to
discuss.” He reached out for his budget reports, but a stained hand snaked out
with startling speed and landed atop the files, fingers splayed.
Severus leaned forward, still keeping the papers pinned to the desk, his eyes
flashing dangerously. “I will not be so easily brushed aside! Nor will I
compound inequity with injustice! How can I hope to salvage anything in such a
situation? I will not do this to him and I will not shame myself thusly!”
For a moment darkness crossed Albus’s features, anger clouding his normally
bright eyes. He tensed, and it seemed to require effort for him to regain
control of his features. A clear blue gaze speared the other man, almost
burning him with its intensity, but despite the black look, a congenial smile
fixed itself on the Headmaster’s mouth. “I will not accept any resignation from
you at this time, Severus. Not in any form.”
The Potions Master stared at him, pulling back as though trying to focus more
completely on the man. Puzzlement twisted his high brow. “Why have you done
this?” He sat back heavily, openly confused. “What are you scheming? Why do you
tolerate this?”
Albus settled back in his chair and looked intently at the younger man.
“Because this is the way that things must be.” His face hardened perceptibly
and there was absolutely no trace of the grandfatherly old man that he
presented to the world. Without the mask of a twinkle, his sapphire eyes
shimmered with a strange chill and a terrible kind of power seemed to lurk
inside the man. “Do not fight me in this, Severus,” he advised in a quiet, firm
voice. “You will lose.” He paused and his gaze sharpened. “You have lost.”
The Potions Master gripped hard at the arms of his chair and his eyes flashed
furiously. “I have done everything you have asked of me, Albus,” Severus hissed
in a low, poisonous whisper. “I have done every single thing you’ve ever
demanded of me—even though I knew it might destroy me. Even when I knew that it
would mean the death of me. I have paid my penance with bloody interest. I have
given you every last thing but my pride. Why do you demand it now?” His hands
trembled slightly. “Why now?”
Albus did not look the least bit impressed. “Do you think you are the only one
to whom I must answer?” He rose with a slowness born of more than age,
uncharacteristically angry. “You are behaving like an utter child, Severus.”
Severus’s jaw literally dropped for a moment. Then he too was on his feet and
all semblance of self control was gone. “Draco Malfoy is DEAD! Does that even
register with you?! You were supposed to protect him! Is it only your precious
Gryffindors who merit your attention now? How bloody much does Slytherin have
to sacrifice to you before—”
“Enough!”
Severus froze, stunned by the exclamation. For a moment, he and Albus regarded
one another across the desk in a heavy silence, then the Potions Master sat
back down in his chair, looking drained and tired.
He turned away from the Headmaster and stared fixedly at fire, his long fingers
steepled in front of his chin.
Albus watched him for a moment with an unfathomable expression before resuming
his seat as well. The younger man did not look away from the flames.
“Albus . . .” The hesitation in his voice was almost painful. “Albus, he tried
to Summon me.”
The old man went very still. “What do you mean?”
“Har—Potter. My Mark was burning; that’s why I returned to Hogwarts when I did.
At first I thought it was the Dark Lord, but it was not.” The light of the fire
cast odd shadows over the professor’s face. “When I found him in the forest, I
knew. I was . . . compelled to be near him. It only happens, I think, when he
wants me close or feels . . . threatened.”
For a moment the Headmaster was silent, tugging thoughtfully at his beard.
Then: “Does he know? Is he aware of what he has done?”
A muscle in the other man’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. “No.” The
response came out from between gritted teeth. “He . . .” He pressed his thin
lips into a tight, hard line. “How can you simply sit there?”
“Do you care for him, Severus?”
“. . . I would not be here otherwise, Albus.” The former Death Eater’s gaze
hardened. “But he is not ready for this—any of it.” I am not ready for this.
“He is only a child.”
Albus tilted his head slightly to the side. “He has never been only a child,
dear boy.”
Severus turned his head slowly, his hands still in front of his face. The look
he gave his employer was venomous and his voice was a low hiss. “Have you gone
mad? Am I the only one who sees this for what it is? For the love of God,
Albus, he is SIXTEEN! Sixteen!! He is a child! An infant! He is no hero or
savior, or miracle. He’s nothing but a stupid boy who’s in over his head! How
can you allow this—any of this?”
The Headmaster’s expression did not change. “How old are you, Severus?”
“Thirty-seven!” the man snarled in response.
Albus nodded slowly. “Almost thirty-eight now.”
Severus met his eyes with a hard gaze and Albus smiled faintly at the angry
defiance the man radiated. “Eighteen years ago, in June actually, I found you
sitting in Hog’s Head nursing a glass of watered down rum and brooding. At the
time, I’d not seen you for nearly three years. I sat down in front of you and
you pointed your wand at me and said, ‘Bugger off, you arse.’” A fond grin
danced over the old man’s features at the memory and Severus had the courtesy
to blush faintly.
The Headmaster continued, looking both tired and amused. “When I tilted my hood
back a bit and you saw my face, I thought you were going to have a heart
attack. Do you remember what I did then?”
Severus looked at him wearily for a moment before picking up the story. “You
laughed at me. Then you looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I have a position
for you, if you are willing and if you are able. Are you ready to come home,
Severus?’”
Albus nodded, pleased that his former student remembered the moment. “Yes. And
then we left the pub. The next day you joined both the Order and the faculty.”
For a moment, the older man’s eyes grew distant, remembering what things had
been like then . . . Before Severus had become so hopelessly jaded and Peter
was a known traitor, and Remus Lupin was a walking zombie. Before Sirius Black
and the Potters died and Harry Potter had the weight of a world rested on his
small shoulders. As terrible as things had been then—and they had been
terrible—they had been happier times. Sometimes, he wished he could go back and
change everything, but he could not.
Albus sighed heavily and focused on Severus again. “You asked me once—just
once—how I knew you were ready to turn from Voldemort then—how I knew that at
that very moment, you were looking for a way out.”
The younger man watched him with an almost fearful expression in his eyes,
though his face remained as stern as ever. “I will not ask you again,” he said
in a tight voice.
“You do not have to,” the old man responded gravely.
There was a faint ‘pop’ and Severus started as tower-like structure suddenly
appeared on the Headmaster’s desk.
Albus gestured to the Scaccarium. “This is how I knew, Severus.
For a long moment, there was silence.
Severus stared, his expression halfway between awe and terror. “How . . .”
On each board, the glass and metal Carunculous danced in a whirl of lights,
each zipping about their levels as though trying to escape. The board—the
Scaccarium—looked like a six tiered, three dimensional chess board, only
(instead of the support tower going up through the center) the support was on
the outside, winding around the six individual boards with arms projecting to
hold up the levels. This made it possible to remove the levels, withdrawing
them the same way one would open a drawer. The entire structure was made of
glass. The boards—each a perfectly cut square—were each a different color, and
each was composed of six rows of six colored circles
Severus sat back, as though distance would remove the artifact from his
presence. There were some magical objects whose reach was so far, whose impact
was so dangerous, that they were destroyed. The Scaccarium was one of them.
Though their exact origins were foggy, it was well known that they had once
been favored tools of the Roman Emperors and Alexander the Great. Every great
warlord, warlock, Emperor, or conqueror before the year 500 AD was supposed to
have benefited from their use.
They were, in fact, deemed so dangerous that in 497 AD—the year of the
overthrow of Romulus Augustulus and the subsequent fall of the Roman Empire—an
accord was reached among the Picts, Germans, Visigoths, and Vandals that all
the remaining Scaccarium would be destroyed. It was their abuse under the Roman
Emperors that was credited with the success (and decadent bloating) of the
Empire. The early leaders of Europe decided that no one man had to right to
move lives and civilizations about to suit his fancy.
The controversy lay in the fact that the Scaccarium and Carunculous were
instruments of predestiny. Though the means to create them had been lost long
ago, their theoretical function had been passed down for millennia. Supposedly,
the boards were smaller representations of the playing field of the Gods. The
pieces on the board were Heroes or Vessels and—in the case of Heroes—appeared
when their corresponding real person was born, or—in the case of Vessels—when
the corresponding person acquired enough resources to become a major player.
Heroes were supposed to be people of Prophecy, like Arthur, or Merlin, or
Caesar (or the Dark Lord and Potter). Vessels were comparatively ordinary
people whose actions or positions made them vital to the fulfillment of the
Hero’s prophecy. The danger of the boards lay in that—though Heroes could not
be forcefully moved about the boards—the Vessels could be slowly adjusted or
manipulated to places they would not have normally gone. Any change to a
Vessel’s position on the board resulted in a redirection of the actual
individual’s life or actions. The possibility of such underhanded manipulations
could be catastrophic on a universal level.
The Potions Master stared at the board and looked more than a little bit ill.
He turned, feeling more than he could even begin to identify, and wondered
bitterly which of those spinning bits of multi colored glass and metal was his.
“Where did you get this?” Strained by barely suppressed anger and fear, Severus
could hardly recognize his own voice.
He was . . . bewildered. And utterly betrayed. Had his entire life simply been
manipulated for him since that night in Hog’s Head? This . . . attraction . . .
to Potter . . . Was it even real?
Was any of this real?
Against his will, his hands clenched into tight, hot fists and he could feel
his magic lurch and quiver within him.
A Scaccarium.
How thoroughly he’d been used. And what a fool he was to have allowed it—an
utter fool.
From across his desk, Albus watched his Potions Master grimly. “Calm yourself,
Severus. The effort it takes to redirect the movements of even one Vessel is
rarely worth the result—especially if the individual has a particularly strong
will. I have found it much more effective to simply use it to keep an eye on
you.”
A dark snarl twisted Severus’s lips. “I am sure. And that gives you the right
to interfere with our lives in such a manner. I am not your bloody pawn, Albus.
He is not your pawn.”
“He has a destiny,” the old man snapped. “And I have a duty to ensure that it
is completed. And I have an obligation and a desire to see that it is resolved
with him safe and sane in the end. Do you think that it has ever been any
different, Severus? You are a spy. You know better. You know exactly what we
face.”
“And you expect me to just stand by and allow you to use him?”
“I do not set the playing field, Severus—I merely do what I can with what I
have been given. You two have made your own decisions, as we all do. Do not
exaggerate your own import on these events, and do not underestimate it. Do not
exaggerate or underestimate my importance, either. I was chosen for this. As
was he. You, however, have set your own path.”
“My own path?” the man spat. “Thus you abdicate responsibility?”
“Thus I knowingly reap what I have sown,” the Headmaster countered sharply.
“And you will now do the same. You know that this artifact cannot lie.”
Severus felt something deep inside him clench and tighten painfully. “That
artifact should not even exist!”
“I know. And I know what I have risked in revealing it to you. But you must
understand what is at stake here. There is more at work than you know. This
Scaccarium has been passed down from Hero to Hero since the days of Merlin. It
was, in fact, his. Before the strife, civil wars, and chaos that preceded
Arthur’s ascension to the throne and the pacification of Britain, the Lady of
the Lake encountered this tower and gave it to Merlin. Legend holds that she
claimed it would be of greater use to him than it could be to her. When he
accepted the Scaccarium, it supposedly bonded to him, allowing him to see the
meaning behind the Carunculous and their dance.”
Severus glared harshly at the man, looking as though he would like to
interrupt, but Albus raised a hand, silently asking the he be allowed to
continue.
“By means even I have not discovered,” the Headmaster pressed on quietly, “it
was preserved through the ages by various Heroes and reverent wizard until it
came into the hands of Rowena Ravenclaw, who bought it to Hogwarts. Since that
time, it has remained in the hands of our faculty and staff, choosing various
Heroes or caretakers until it comes to where it needs to be. It is the magic of
the Scaccarium itself that guides it to the people it deems necessary or worthy
to possess it. It has been in my possession since I first entered this room as
headmaster. Your ancestor Lamia Snape directed me to it. She was the last Hero
to be bound to the Scaccarium and it was her portrait who guided me through my
school days at this institution and helped me prepare for the confrontation
with Grindelwald.”
He watched Severus carefully for a moment, judging the other man’s expression
before he continued. “I owe a great debt to your family. Not only for Lamia’s
guidance so early in my life, but also because of my pitiable failure of you
during your own school years here at Hogwarts. I would give a great deal to see
you happy and at peace.”
Severus’s thin lips pulled back into a harsh, bestial sneer of derision. “And
saddling me with a child with a penchant for bizarre obsession and a death
sentence stamped on his forehead will make me happy? Showing me just how deeply
and thoroughly you have played me like a pawn on your bloody chessboard is
supposed to make me HAPPY?!”
Something in Albus’s expression blackened and a look of acute pain—almost
anguish—flashed over the man’s face. He looked away from the younger man in
favor of staring at the tower with haunted eyes. His voice sounded
unaccountably hollowed and thin. “It is the best I can do under the
circumstances.”
The indignity and rage that had been coiling to strike in Severus’s center
melted into a kind of muted dread and his dark eyes flickered back to the
artifact. For an instant his lips moved silently, his own words echoing
ominously in his head: “. . . a death sentence stamped on his forehead . . .”
The Potions Master licked his lips tiredly and forced himself to speak. “What
circumstances?”
Albus leaned back in his seat, fished a peppermint out of his robes and put it
in his mouth. He sucked on the sweet for a moment, watching the man he’d come
to love like his own in pensive silence as the carunculous danced, flashed, and
whirled. When he spoke, his words were slow, but steady and without hesitation.
“When I saw you holding him at the Headquarters that night, Severus, touching
him so intimately, I was heartbroken. And furious. How had I once again failed
you both so thoroughly? I left immediately. I did not trust myself to remain
and face you. When I returned to my office, I spent hours watching the
Scaccarium. You are a Vessel, Severus, and in the moment you touched him, you
changed everything. Entire boards shifted. Pieces rearranged themselves.”
Severus’s brow furrowed and he shook his head in a tense, aborted motion as he
discerned where this was headed. “No.”
The Headmaster did not seem to hear him. “Your destinies are now intertwined.
One cannot be separated from the other without one or the both of you dying.
You hold one another’s lives in your hands.”
The fire popped loudly, and the younger man stared at him blankely, pale, and
empty-eyed.
When the silence seemed to have gone on for too long, Albus leaned forward
again, forcing Severus to meet his gaze with numbing intensity. “Do you
understand what I am saying to you?”
Severus’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily. His voice was little more than a breath.
“You are giving this boy to me?”
Albus shook his head gravely, beard swaying and gaudy lime green hat shivering
with the motion. “No. You, Vessel, have taken this Hero for your own. I am
merely forcing you to reap what you have sown. I told you before, Severus:
there are some things that I cannot protect you from. You have guarded him for
five years. Now you must continue in that stead and protect him from all
things—including yourself.”
“Have you any idea what you are demanding of me?”
“I am telling you that—by your own actions—you can no longer jump ship as it
pleases you. Do not put this on me, Severus. You have done this to yourself.”
Severus gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“And what will you tell your Golden Boy?” he hissed. “Will you tell him of
this? Did you learn nothing last year? He does not like being deceived or
manipulated. He does not like being used. If he discovers what the Scaccarium
is—that you have been manipulating—”
“He will not find out.” Albus’s tone brooked for no argument and for a moment
the Potions Master stared, knowing that he was well and truly caught.
Absolutely ensnared.
He did not dare leave Potter now—he couldn’t even if he wanted to—and, in
regards to protecting the brat, his position at Hogwarts was too advantageous
for him to willingly give it up. Albus could be tossed into Azkaban for using a
Scaccarium and he wasn’t about to allow that to happen. For over seventeen
years, the Headmaster had been his rock—infallible. He’d burned too many
bridges to cut ties with Albus now, and he’d crossed too many to cut Harry off.
Too many. It was all entirely too much.
Abruptly, Severus pushed himself to his feet, too agitated to remain seated.
His left hand trembled and he began to pace in tight, furious circles.
Furniture clambered out of his way with loud scrapes and wooden clanking
noises. He did not notice.
“You . . . you . . .”
“Have done the best I could, Severus.” There was a silent “which is more than
can be said for you” that hung ominously in the air.
The former Death Eater froze in mid stride and very slowly turned his head to
look over at his mentor. “And what is to say that you have not lied to me?”
“Why should I?” The Headmaster’s gaze narrowed and he thinned his lips
dangerously. His eyes glittered. “What purpose would lying to you serve? Do you
believe that I relish the situation in which we’ve all become embroiled? Do you
think I would have chosen to allow you to stumble into such a quagmire?”
Severus looked away, unable to meet the old man’s eyes. The censure in Albus’s
voice was almost painful.
“I have put myself at great risk in showing you what I have and in telling you
what I know. I have only done so because you must understand what you risk by
playing this game. There is no turning back now, Severus—no more running away,
or hiding behind those who could protect you. Not in this. His life is now
yours, dear boy. You must bear that burden alone.”
The elderly wizard sighed, and the harsh edges left his expression, leaving him
worn and tired. “I have deceived and mislead you, Severus, but I have never
lied to you.”
“You have broken me,” the man whispered, almost choking on his own impotence.
Albus looked at him levelly. “Physician, heal thyself.”
Severus opened his mouth, but no sound left him. His body trembled for a moment
with a shiver of rage, not fear or agitation. Then he spun sharply on his heel
and stalked towards the door, his fury wrapped ‘round him like a cloak. When he
reached the doorknob, he paused, one hand on the cool metal, and turned
slightly, to sneer faintly at his employer.
Albus had returned to his budgets.
The tall, lanky professor felt a flash of something like hatred burn hot inside
him and turned a bit more, wanting the other man to see the injustice of this
abuse on his face. “What? No lemon drops?”
The old man looked up from the paperwork and seemed infinitely sad as he
watched his child. He smiled, but the expression was painfully false. “I seem
to have lost my taste for them.”
Severus stared for a moment, something like pain moving through him at the way
his mentor said the words. But he had humiliated himself enough for one day, so
he did the only dignified thing he could do: he turned and walked away.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
The Gryffindor ran his hand idly through her hair, feeling the warm, soft press
of her body against his beneath the sheets. She stirred in his arms, but did
not wake up. He stared up at the red canopy of his bed, seeing in the shadows
faces and shapes that weren’t there. The young man hummed silently, strains of
an old wizard song floating through his mind, and tried very hard not to think
of anything.
He was so angry . . . so bloody frustrated—
“Give him time,” she’d urged him. “He’s just going through some things right
now.”
Right.
Some things.
Things that got Draco Malfoy killed.
Things that put him in the Hospital Wing for days.
Things that made him keep secrets.
Ron used his free hand to pull the bedclothes up closer around him and
Hermione.
If he was honest with himself, that was what hurt more than anything: Harry was
keeping secrets.
Growing up in a large family pretty much precluded keeping any sort of secret.
He was absolutely bloody transparent when it came to secrets. Merlin, half of
Hogwarts—Harry included—knew how he’d felt about Hermione before he did. He
hadn’t even been able to keep his relationship with Hermione under wraps when
push came to shove.
He had no secrets from Harry.
But now all that seemed to be between them were secrets.
Things had never really been the same after their fight Fourth Year. Yeah,
maybe he should have listened to Harry and Hermione and, yeah, maybe he did
overreact . . . But what was he supposed to do? Harry was a brilliant person
once you got to know him, but he was Harry bloody Potter. And the fact that
Harry hated the attention and was generally pretty clueless when it came to the
wizarding world somehow only made him more popular—though exactly how that
worked Ron wasn’t sure.
First Year, it had been kinda funny (not to mention an ego boost) to see Harry
fumbling his way through things. Even with Quirrel and the Stone, it hadn’t
been too terrible. Then in Second Year, there had been the spiders and the
parselmouth. Ron still shivered to recall that. Then Hermione got hurt. That
hadn’t really been fun at all. Then in Third Year, things changed. It all just
seemed . . . so much more sinister. Werewolves and Grims . . . Sure, the dog
had only been Sirius, but Ron still had nightmares about being drug under that
the Whomping Willow and into the Shack. No one seemed to think about that,
though: after all, Harry Potter saved the day again, didn’t he? Then in Fourth
Year . . .
He had really believed that Harry put his name into the Goblet. Truly. How was
he supposed to know that it was yet another ridiculously complicated plot to
kill off Harry Potter? Really, if they wanted him dead so badly, why not just
poison his food, or have some nutter randomly attack him in Hogsmead? Why all
this sneaking about was needed, he didn’t know.
Fred and George used to joke about that last year—how the Dark Lord seemed
incapable of killing Harry without making a year-long production about it. It
had become a running gag between the two of them . . . until their Mum found
out. Then she had just started crying and Dad had sent them to bed without
supper.
That was starting to happen a lot he’d noticed . . . People would just clam up
when it came to talking about what they thought Harry would do when he
graduated. Harry hadn’t seen it, but Hermione had. Hermione had told him that
it was because they didn’t want to get their hopes up in case Harry died or
something. The Headmaster and McGonagall made it a point to talk about Harry’s
future, though. In fact, McGonagall seemed to have made getting Harry into the
Auror Program her raison d’être. Ron wanted to join them in talking about
Harry’s life after Hogwarts—as though to prove to everyone that he would have a
life after Hogwarts—but his throat seemed to close up whenever he tried.
He couldn’t picture a life without Harry Potter. Not the Boy-Who-Lived . . .
No: Harry Potter, his best friend. He’d never had a friend like Harry. Harry
was funny, and brave, and no one else would listen to Ron rant about the
Cannons anymore except Harry. But he was also stubborn, and proud, and he could
hold a grudge like nobody’s business. And he had a temper, though no one ever
seemed to realize it.
And they were mates.
There were things about Harry that he didn’t like. The attention. The pride.
Harry’s unwillingness to accept help from anyone. … The Snape thing . . . They
didn’t agree on everything, after all. Some of it was Harry’s fault, and some
of it was his. There were things about Harry that he just flat out didn’t get.
The idea of holding any bloke the way he held Hermione was enough to make Ron
physically ill. It just wasn’t . . . well, it just didn’t feel right. And the
Snape thing . . . that was just kinda sick.
It was Snape, for Merlin’s sake.
Snape.
But the idea of not being Harry’s friend was enough to send chills down his
spine. It was like someone asking him to give up a finger or something. He
liked his fingers. And he liked Harry . . . in the friend way.
Hermione shifted in his arms and he looked down at her, frowning as he thought.
Things couldn’t go on like this. If they were going to be friends, Harry would
have to trust them. . . . And if Harry was going to trust them, then he’d have
to keep a level head when things got weird. Things usually had a way of getting
weird with Harry.
Ron nodded resolutely and hugged Hermione closer.
Something was going to have to give, but this time, he was willing to at least
meet the other boy halfway. The rest, though, was up to Harry.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
He was naked in the desert, wearing only his new glasses. The cracked, thirsty
earth felt warm beneath his bare feet. A wind blew, ruffling his hair, and
Harry turned away from the breeze, wrinkling his nose. It smelled like ashes
and decay.
His body ached faintly and he winced slightly as he looked around. The land was
flat and bare and, despite the unfamiliar stars in the sky, there was something
strangely familiar about this place—the faint imprint of a fever dream.
“Hello . . .?” He spoke normally, but his voice sounded like nothing more than
a whisper in the strange emptiness. “ . . . Hello . . .”
“You’ve decided.”
The voice startled Harry and the Gryffindor whirled around, empty hands raised
to defend himself against an attack that was not coming.
Draco—or rather, the shade of Draco—sneered slightly at the gesture. The
translucent boy was wearing his Hogwarts’ robes—the same torn and hastily
straightened ones he’d died in—but otherwise, he looked just like the boy Harry
had passed in the hallways everyday. Somehow that was comforting.
The blond stuck his chin out slightly, seemingly either unaware, or uncaring of
Harry’s nudity. Harry couldn’t seem to find the presence of mind to feel
ashamed of his body and met the other boy’s gaze without fear. There was no
anger there, simply the smug self assurance that was so inherently Malfoy it
made the breath catch somewhere below Harry’s breastbone. A deep ache took up
residence deep inside him.
“Well, let’s have it then, Potter,” the Slytherin ordered briskly.
Harry looked away as the ache within him swelled and made his eyes sting
slightly. Almost as an afterthought, his hands twitched inwards to cover his
flaccid penis, but the motion was halfhearted and Draco did not seem to take
note of it in the least.
“Come on, now,” he snapped, taking a step closer to the shorter teen. “None of
that. Stiff upper lip and all.” The words were stingingly derisive, but Harry
had the distinct impression that the derision was not aimed specifically at
him.
The brunet scrambled for a reply that would not come and shifted unhappily from
side to side. His tongue felt thick and clumsy and there was the distinct
flavor of raw, bloodied meat in his mouth. He licked his lips in search of a
wound, but tasted only the dry, harsh air and dust of the desert. “I beg your
pardon?”
A bird cawed unseen in the darkness of the moonless sky and the civility of the
conversation struck him as absurd. He couldn’t meet Draco’s eyes.
“What have you chosen?” the Malfoy heir persisted, looking rather annoyed at
Harry’s recalcitrance. “You’re running out of time.”
Harry turned away, looking up at the sky. Automatically, his eyes sought the
Dog Star, but he could not find it. Instead, strange, fierce constellations
stared back at him with ambivalence, fixed motionless in the sky.
“Potter!”
The cry forcibly drew Harry’s attention back to the irritated phantom and he
blinked as though refocusing the world would change what was happening. Draco’s
silvery-blue eyes were sharp and narrowed, waiting impatiently.
“I haven’t chosen anything.”
The blond snorted sharply in response. “Bullocks.” A thin, pale hand waved
dismissively through the air, breaking their eye contact. For a moment, the
pale Seeker looked down with a thoughtful frown, as though thinking of a
different way to pose his question. Then he looked back up, a conspiratorial
half-smile curving his thin, aristocratic lips.
Before Harry could move away, the shade took a quick step forward, bridging the
gap between them so that he was practically pressed flush against the other
boy. The Gryffindor shuddered reflexively as one of those awful, pale hands was
pressed against his stomach, expecting the cold chill he’d come to associate
with ghosts. Instead, though, there was only a mild tingling, like static
electricity buzzing through him. His body leaned into the hand slightly,
craving the sensation, and a light, pleasant hum settled under his skin, making
him feel almost electrified.
“There’s a snake in your belly,” Draco whispered quietly in his ear. Harry
shivered at the electric feel of lips brushing against the sensitive shell of
flesh. “And it’s trying to get out.”
I don’t understand. But when he opened his mouth, only one word left it:
“Heka.”
He didn’t know what kind of reply that was, but for a moment Draco held still
against him, cool, translucent, and entirely too close. When the Slytherin
pulled away from him, he had a strangely thoughtful look on his face, pensive
in a way Harry had never seen before.
“I am no easy meat.” He said it as though it was a warning of some sort.
Harry’s mind scrambled to hold onto the words and lock them into memory, but
the seemed to slide away from him like water. Draco took another step away from
him.
“Wait!!” Something like panic blossomed inside Harry and he reached out to grip
the other boy’s arm in desperation. His hand grasped at air.
Draco smiled at him, a harsh expression.
Harry tried to take a step forward, but his feet couldn’t seem to move. The
aborted motion made him bend over sharply, arms extended imploringly towards
the blond. “What is this place?” he heard himself grind out in frustration.
Draco simply continued to smile and pointed down at his companion’s feet.
Harry’s eyes followed the gesture and he stared in astonishment as the cracks
in the earth closed up. The ground turned black and smooth, like expensive
lacquer, and seemed to solidify, feeling both firmer and less real at the same
time. Harry raised his eyes, knowing what he would see even before he saw it.
Grid squares, both white and black were forming around him, and the
corresponding players began to appear.
Their roles were obvious, but their sides were indistinguishable. There was no
white or black, only the polychromatic swirl and sway of wizarding robes and
skirts of various colors. Severus, Mad Eye, Bellatrix, and the shattered
remains of what was once Lucius Malfoy masqueraded as bishops, while Narcissa
Malfoy stood cold and proud, half hidden behind the knight Micah Jasperstone.
Voldemort and Dumbledore faced one another with grim expressions from the far
sides of the board, each a strangely garbed king. Hermione was behind him,
looking stern and strangely beautiful in her Gryffindor robes, an unusual rook.
Ron was at her side, maneuvering behind and in front of her with the ease that
only a knight could manage. Peter Pettigrew made another curious knight, eyeing
the youngest Weasley son with darting, frantic eyes across the board. Behind
him, the rook Randolph Lestrange looked on with hungry eyes, on his side and
immobile.
The Sword of Gryffindor rose slowly out of Harry’s square, the black of the
board clinging to it in a strange, liquid way. A part of him wanted to grasp
the hilt of the sword and cut his way through to the end of the board. To
Voldemort. Another part of him was repulsed by the sight of it.
Harry turned to Draco, but a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye
arrested his attention and he stepped back, just in time to see Richard Goyle
lunge towards him gracelessly. Without a thought, he grabbed the Sword of
Gryffindor and impaled the man. As the blade slid into the Death Eater-pawn, it
seemed to burst into flames, and the elder Goyle dove forward into the sword,
undone by the force of his attack. By the time his stomach touched the hilt, he
was little more than a human-shaped cinder.
The Gryffindor jerked the blade out, stunned by his own actions, and the
charred husk fell heavily to the ground in front of him. He took a step back,
unable to leave the confines of his square. The untarnished blade of the sword
shone brilliant in the star light and the teen tried to avert his eyes, but
could only look upwards. The fearsome constellations he’d seen before now
wheeled and writhed above them, living things that hissed and snarled down at
the heedless people on the board.
He swayed on his feet at the immensity of the sky and a cool hand touched his
wrist, grounding him. Draco had stepped into his square.
Their eyes met and Harry tried to think of something to say, but he could not.
Draco smirked, an expression that was both easy arrogance and casual, tentative
friendship. “When you reach the eighth square, you’ll be a Queen.”
Then a flash of green light hit them, sending them both tumbling to the ground,
and the last thing Harry felt was the hard press of a body and the comforting
familiarity of soft, dark robes.
“I’ve got you.”
Then he felt nothing at all.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“Is everything in motion?”
Kingsley nodded in the fireplace. “I’ve sent the lot over to one of our people
in the Department of Family Affairs. Hopefully, it will all be done by the New
Year.”
Albus closed his eyes wearily. “Good. This has proceeded much more smoothly
than I’d hoped.”
“Fudge will never know what hit him,” the Auror concurred with an
uncharacteristically satisfied smirk.
“Once Harry is out of harm’s way, we can move onto other projects.” The
Headmaster ate another peppermint, crunching the hard candy distractedly. “Have
you been gathering what you need?”
“Yes, Albus. It will be the best birthday present Arthur’s ever had.”
“Do whatever you need to do—within reason, of course. Alastor and Nymphadora
are at your disposal as well.”
The disembodied head in the fireplace nodded again. “I’ve also been putting in
a few words here and there about young Mr. Weasley. If he can keep up his
grades, the program may yet accept him.”
Albus smiled, the first genuine smile Kingsley had seen since the call began.
“Excellent. I know he was very disappointed when he only received an Acceptable
in Potions. Is there anything more?”
For a moment the younger man frowned as though considering something. Then he
looked back up at his old friend from the flames. “When will you tell Harry?
You know you can’t keep this a secret forever.”
“I will tell him as soon as I can be assured that it is a possibility. He will
not protest, I think. There will be a bit of noise once it’s made public, but
that will no doubt fade soon enough. Given these dark times, the world has
bigger things to worry about.”
Kingsley did not look convinced. “Albus, given these dark times, I doubt the
world has anything bigger to worry about than Harry Potter.”
The Headmaster smiled faintly. “Too true, old friend. But I will worry about
the world. For now, just take care of your small part of it.”
A snort of laughter was his only reply as the Auror’s head vanished from the
flames. Albus straightened slowly and went back to his desk to finish the
budget and prepare for his next appointment. He did not even notice how hard he
was working to avoid looking at the clock where Harry’s hand was set on
‘Somewhere I Don’t Belong’ and the word ‘Prepared’ was inscribed along its
length.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Harry woke up alone, but he was somehow unsurprised. He felt different. Better.
Tired, but better. He felt . . . determined.
He knew that Severus was going to fight this once again in that vicious, half-
hearted way of his. And he also knew that he wasn’t going to allow it. Not this
time. No matter what happened, he would not be chased away. He was sick to
death of this stilted obsession. Either it went somewhere, or he gave it up
entirely. Something had to give.
He lay with his eyes closed for several minutes listening to the fire crackle
and the tick of a clock, before opening his eyes to stare blurrily at the
world. He was laying on a couch, still naked and covered with a thick
comforter. The dark fabric of the couch and the blanket blended into a navy
blue blur. A fire danced merrily in the enormous hearth several feet away.
There was a low sitting room table between him and fireplace and on it sat his
new glasses. He could see the flames dance and flicker through his lenses.
The boy reached out a careful arm, still unwilling to leave his comfy position
on the couch, and was surprised to find the air pleasantly warm against his
skin. He snagged the spectacles from the table and pushed himself upright,
swaddling the enormous blanket around him. It smelled like Severus.
He settled his glasses on his nose and blinked as the world was brought into
painfully sharp focus once more. These were much better than his old pair. On
the table in front of him he could now see his clothing, neatly folded in a
pile, with a note and his wand resting atop them. He leaned forward to retrieve
the slip of paper. As he moved about, the torches on the wall suddenly flared
to life, illuminating the room with sharp clarity. The moment his fingers
touched the parchment, words appeared:
I’ve gone to see the Headmaster. Be thankful it is Sunday, you lazy thing,
because you’ve slept right through breakfast. See the House Elves about a bite
to eat at the kitchens; I would tell you the way, but I rather think it would
be a moot point. Try not to get into anymore trouble today, Mr. Potter. Any
probing into your current whereabouts could become rather inconvenient rather
quickly.
The boy smiled despite himself and stood to get dressed. His skin had the
tight, tingly feel of more cleaning spells than had been necessary and he
dressed hurriedly. It didn’t take long, though: he’d not been wearing very much
last night. He was not so much rushed to get dressed as he was rushed not be
naked. Harry could think of only so many reasons why Severus would go see
Dumbledore after what happened over the past few days, and none of them were
good. Once he was back in his pants and robe, he stood, keeping the blanket
wrapped tight around him, and looked around the chamber curiously.
He’d been a bit too distracted last night to notice anything, but now not even
his own precarious position could fully restrain his curiosity. The sitting
room was a large rectangular chamber made of large, gray stone. Directly in
front of him, the fire extended a bit into the room, away from the bookshelf
lined walls. Enormous, seemingly ancient books were crammed into every inch of
the shelves stacked in various strange ways to make room for even more volumes.
What little free space there was on the shelves was cluttered with strange
wizarding knickknacks, ornately shaped potions vials of glass, wood and metal,
and liquid filled jars of varying shapes and sizes, all with something obscure
and unpleasant looking in them.
The floor was made of the same stone as the walls and large, plushy carpets of
forest green and dark blue were cast about. One was in front of the door to the
chambers to his left, one was beneath the sitting area, another was beneath the
immense oak desk in the area to his right and a fourth was behind the sitting
area, in front of the two large doors that seemed to be that area’s only real
asset. There were two big cushy-looking arm chairs on either side of the
sitting area, each with a small table that matched the table in front him. The
one to his left looked well used, but the one to the right didn’t seem to have
had frequent occupants. Their fabric matched the black/navy blue of the couch.
The area by the door was dull. Only a small table stood beside it to the right,
and to the left rose another set of the high shelves. The desk on the other
hand was an organized chaos of potions vials, herbs, loads of scrolls and
papers, quills, inkwells, something that looked disturbingly like a dried and
cured human hand, and various other sundry looking items. Harry also noticed
his glasses—his old glasses that he’d been told were lost—sitting atop a pile
of scrolls. He decided to leave them there. He liked his new ones better
anyway. There was a doorway on the other side of the desk, but it was black
inside and he couldn’t see where it led. In the corner next to the doorway,
there was a rather out-of-place looking rocking chair made of some ancient,
dark wood.
The wall behind him had three small, ordinary looking bookshelves—each with
three shelves and all filled with what seemed to be compendiums of magazines
and newspapers. There was one on either side of each door with the third
bookcase set between the two. On top of one of them sat an issue of last year’s
Quibbler, the so-called “Harry Potter Edition,” and his own picture blinked up
at the ceiling in a strangely two dimensional way.
Harry shivered at the flat image of his face and returned to the couch before
he gave into the urge to prowl around. Severus had trusted him a great deal in
leaving him alone in his quarters. He had no doubt that the man was fully
capable of waking him up and tossing him out on his ear after last night. That
the cagey spy trusted him this much was touching and Harry refused to take
advantage of the rare demonstration. He unwound the blanket and folded it
carefully, setting it on the arm of the couch once he was done.
As they were in the dungeons, there were no windows. Really, Harry couldn’t
image why there would be windows here. Snape’s office was near the entrance to
the dungeons, just above ground. The windows there looked out onto the main
gates that led to Hogsmead. As far as he could understand, this section of the
dungeons was under the lake. There would have been nothing to see except the
underbelly of the squid. Or maybe the occasional cavorting merfolk. Quite
frankly, the idea of either made Harry wrinkle his nose. He hadn’t been all
that fond of merfolk since Fourth Year.
Unbidden, his mind went to Ron and he shivered at the sudden chill that moved
through him. He just wanted to kick himself over what had happened last night.
The things he’d said. He really hadn’t meant to knock Hermione down, but they
never stopped pushing . . .
"Do you have any idea how bloodyhardwe're trying? Any idea at all how hard it
is to be Harry Potter's best friends?"
He sighed heavily and sat back into the soft cushions of the couch, staring at
the flames. Ron was right, of course. He was being entirely unfair. And the
Headmaster was right, too: they wouldn’t let him push them away.
But they wanted to know about Draco, and Severus, and the Dursleys and a
hundred other things he didn’t want to—no, couldn’t talk about.
They were his friends. His first friends. And he loved them like they were a
part of him. He’d have to make this right somehow. Somehow. And he’d have to
find a way to do it that would keep everyone involved safe.
Somehow.
The Gryffindor frowned in contemplation at the fire, unintentionally biting at
his lower lip as he rolled the issue around in his head. He wanted things to be
the way they were before. He just wondered how much they would demand before
they forgave him his stupidity.
A familiar tingle suddenly made his hair stand on end and Harry stiffened
slightly. “Dobby?”
The Elf instantly materialized with a ‘crack,’ blushing at having been caught
spying. Harry frowned at him slightly and the little creature had the good
grace to look utterly abashed.
“Harry Potter was not in his bed, sir. Dobby was worried. Winky was saying that
she is seeing Harry Potter come visit Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape last
night, so Dobby is coming to see.”
Harry frowned darkly and a chill went through him. “Do you know if anyone else
saw me? Did Winky tell anyone else?” If the Elf started gossiping, this could
be an utter disaster . . .
But Dobby shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, sir!!! Winky is being very, very
fond of Mr. Professor Snape, sir! She is even crying less, sir. Hardly at all.
And Winky is not touching the butterbeer once in over a week! Winky is deciding
to be keeping his secrets and won’t let any of the other Elves clean his
quarters anymore.” The bat-like ears on the Elf’s head seemed to wilt a moment.
“Though . . . most Elves is being to frightened to come here now because of Mr.
Death Eater Professor Snape’s temper, and he is locking us out quite often . .
.” The elf slumped and tears started to form in his eyes at the memory.
The boy patted his friend on the shoulder to cheer him up and wondered what the
professor could have possibly done to terrify the House Elves so much that they
stopped cleaning. “Er . . .” He stared awkwardly at the servant, scrambling
about for something calming to say. The last thing he felt like dealing with
was a sobbing Dobby. “It’s alright. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
The tiny creature let out an enormous sniffle.
“Come on, now. None of that. I’m not upset that you found me. Thank you for
looking for me. You really are a good friend.”
That did it. The sorrow on the Elf’s face immediately transformed into a look
of pure joy and he beamed at the human. “Harry Potter is so kind!!” Dobby
latched onto Harry’s leg, hugging him tight. “Harry Potter is missing
breakfast! Would he be liking something?” Enormous, tennis ball-shaped eyes
sparkled up at him, practically glowing at the thought of being useful.
Harry considered trying to shake the Elf off him, but figured that that would
be either insulting to Dobby, impossible, or both. So instead, he smiled down
at the Elf and wracked his brain for breakfast foods. “Um . . . May I have
fried eggs, bacon, toast with jam and butter, pumpkin juice, fried potatoes,
and some tea? And tea, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, black pudding, and toast and
marmalade for Sev—er . . . the professor.”
Dobby nodded happily, ears flopping back and forth with the motion. “Yes sir!”
Harry couldn’t help but smile and he patted the Elf’s head affectionately. “Is
twenty minutes alright?”
The House Elf released him and seemed to bounce back a step. He paused suddenly
and gave Harry a sly look that the Gryffindor remembered all too well from Aunt
Petunia’s kitchen. “Dobby is very happy to be seeing Master Harry Potter happy
again. Dobby was sad when Harry Potter was sad.” The creature smiled slightly,
and Harry suddenly felt uneasy. “Dobby will be keeping Harry Potter’s secrets,
but if Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape is making Harry Potter unhappy again,
Dobby will have to be protecting Harry Potter again, sir. It is for Harry
Potter’s own good, sir.”
Harry’s jaw dropped and the Elf vanished with a crack before he could respond.
The teen leapt to his feet in protest. “Dobby!”
But the Elf did not return.
For a moment, Harry remained standing, feeling distinctly uneasy about the
prospect of Dobby “protecting” him from Professor Snape. It didn’t help that a
part of him wondered if he didn’t genuinely need the protection from Severus .
. .
The young man scowled and dropped back onto the couch. Dobby would be fine. He
couldn’t actually hurt the Professor, and—if what he said about Winky was
true—he doubted the overly emotional female Elf would allow any harm to befall
the Potions Master. . . . Though, in his experience, House Elf logic and ideas
about what constituted harm were shaky at best.
Harry shrugged off the thought with a frown and eyed the blanket on the arm of
the couch again. He was starting to feel antsy . . . itching for something to
do. Besides, the fold really had been shoddy the first time—not nearly as even
as it should have been. He stood, grabbed the blanket and began folding it
again more neatly. As he brought two of the corners together, he realized that
the chair to his right was the one he and Severus had sat in last night. His
face flushed brilliant red at the memory and he quickly banished it. The last
thing he needed was to get into an argument with Severus while half his blood
was flowing southward. He looked away from the chair and finished folding the
blanket, humming to keep away memories of Severus whispering the word ‘fuck’ in
his ear.
When the blanket had been yet again reduced to a neatly folded rectangle, Harry
sat stiffly on the chair and Occlouded his mind, falling into a light medative
state as he waited for Severus to return. It did not seem like a long time had
passed when he heard the doorknob rattle slightly. He turned expectantly as the
door opened.
Severus entered with a dramatic swirl of his robes and drew himself up short
when he caught sight of Harry still sitting on the couch. The door slammed shut
loudly. Harry looked back at him curiously and for a moment the two merely
stared at one another in silence. To his credit, the man did not look
surprised, or even displeased to see the object of his indiscretions perched on
the edge of his sofa. Nor did he look pleased.
The expression in his eyes was dark and measuring, as though he were trying to
come to some sort of decision. Harry simply waited.
At length, Snape moved again, walking slowly (for him) across the room to stand
next to the fire. He watched the flames for a moment and then turned to look at
the Gryffindor. “You stayed.” His voice was without inflection.
Harry sat back against the thick cushions. “It wasn’t the kind of thing one
should leave after.” He wondered briefly what would have happened if he had
left, but brushed the thought aside almost immediately. He hadn’t left. He
wouldn’t leave. Not this time.
“It?” the man repeated tonelessly. “No. I don’t suppose ‘it’ was.”
Harry felt his lips thin slightly. “You’re still feeling guilty about this?”
For a moment the man’s eyes narrowed and something indecipherable danced over
his face. Then he looked away, choosing instead to stare at the wall behind
Harry. “I am guilty of not feeling guilty enough to stop wanting this.” He said
the words carefully, as though they would break if he put it in any other
terms.
“You didn’t take me. I mean, we didn’t really have s—”
“I wanted to,” Snape hissed uncomfortably. He did that curious twisting motion
he always seemed to do when faced with something he didn’t want to discuss. “I
want to.” He looked back up, easily ensnaring the boy with his eyes. “You have
no idea how close you came last night—”
Harry shook his head, breaking eye contact. “You wouldn’t have done something
like that to me if I didn’t want it.”
“You sound so sure of yourself, Mr. Potter.”
Harry smiled tentatively. “Gryffindor.”
“Fool.” The word was said without rancor.
Harry looked away, smile fading despite his best efforts. The fire popped
loudly. “I’ve ordered breakfast from Dobby. For both of us. I got you fried
eggs, fried tomatoes, black pudding, and toast and marmalade.”
Snape watched him with fathomlessly dark eyes. “Rather presumptuous of you,
wasn’t it?”
“You have it every Sunday for breakfast.” When the man’s gaze narrowed, Harry
shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve seen you. At breakfast, I mean.”
Finally, the Potions Master looked away, brooding at the fire once more. “I
don’t know what you like to eat.” The words were a whisper.
When it became clear that he had nothing else to say, Harry stood and forced
himself to walk over to the fire. He stood on the opposite side of the mantel
from Snape and stared down at the flames, relishing the heat through his thin
robes. After a moment, he spoke in a quiet, pensive tone. “Most anything,
really. Beggars can’t be choosers and all. But I really like Cornish pasties
and fried bacon. I hate Bubble and Squeak.” He made a face at the fire.
Severus turned and watched his companion for a moment in silence. “I’ve always
been partial to raspberry scones, myself.”
Harry looked up, eyes devoid of humor. “What do you want, Severus?”
“. . . I do not know.”
“Well, I know what I want. And I am not going to wait forever for you to figure
it out.”
The man stiffened and turned his back to Harry and the flames, a tight,
strained expression on his face. “Then leave. You are not bound to me. I will
not stop you.” He shuddered, though if it was because of the sudden chill that
had swept through him, or the feel of those green eyes burning into his back,
he wasn’t sure. “Leave.”
Harry remained by the mantle, staring at the man’s back. “You know what really
gets me the most about all of this? You can’t even see what’s happening to me.”
The shudder that moved through Severus was more pronounced this time. “I told
you to leave.”
“I’m waiting for my breakfast,” the boy snapped in response. He pushed himself
off the mantel and stalked towards Snape. “Are you even listening to me? You
are all I think of. I want—”
Severus whirled, his robes flaring out around him and snarled at his unwelcome
house guest. He flowed across the room, his mere presence forcing the boy back
a step. “Want? Want?! Always on about what you want! You don’t know what you
want, Mr. Potter! You. Are. A. Child.”
“You sure as hell didn’t seem to think so last night!”
Snape blanched.
Harry paled and bit his lower lip.
“Get out.”
“No.”
A muscle in the Potions Master’s jaw jumped and he squeezed his hands into
tight fists and slowly lowered his head to stare at the ground. His entire body
appeared to be trembling. “Mr. Potter. Leave. Now.”
Harry planted both his feet firmly on the ground, determination etched into
every line of his body. “No.”
Severus moved so fast that the act seemed nothing more than a frantic flash of
light and shadows. Then, quite abruptly, Harry found himself pressed back
against the wall of the mantel, head ringing with the force of impact, and feet
dangling a good foot or so off the ground as the tall man held him up, one
stained hand wrapped tightly around his throat. The boy instantly panicked,
kicking out futilely with his feet and scratching desperately at the iron grip
cutting off his air as a series of choked gasps tore free of him. He could feel
the blunt edges of the fingers cutting into his flesh and bruising him.
Snape smirked at his captive’s struggles, a cruel smile distorting his already
graceless features, and a spark of something almost mad shone in his eyes.
Harry’s robes had fallen open and Severus ran his free hand down the
Gryffindor’s thin chest and slipped it easily into the flimsy pajama pants to
caress bare flesh. He leaned forward until their noses were almost touching,
still choking the youth with one hand and slowly rubbing his other hand up and
down Harry’s penis. “Is this what you want? This is who I am Potter, what I am.
You have no clue—”
The flailing ceased as he was fondled and the hand holding Snape’s wrist
tightened, cutting the man’s tirade off. Harry glared at him with a look that
bordered on hatred, his pupils dilated wide as the flush in his face turned a
purplish blue. A pink tongue darted out over swollen lips. “I walked out on the
two most important things in my life last night just to be with you,” he
rasped. “You are all I want.”
Severus froze, wild eyes locked on Harry’s bloodshot green gaze, and he
withdrew his hand. Then, slowly—ever so slowly—his fingers opened stiffly. They
moved like broken bits of wood, as though he wasn’t controlling them at all,
and Harry’s throat slipped out of them with the ease of water. The boy slid
straight down the wall into a heap and stared up at Severus. There was no anger
on his face, simply a look of frustration. And pain.
“Why?” he asked as he stared up at his teacher. His voice was scratchy. “Why do
I want you of all people? You’re such a pedantic arse. Why you?”
The helpless frustration in the boy’s voice was too much and Severus’s eyes
fluttered shut as bile rose in his throat. He turned away and his legs gave way
beneath him, sending him crumpling to the floor in a heap beside his would-be
suitor. He trembled, hiding his face in his hands as he knelt before the boy,
and Harry watched him for a moment with hard eyes.
They were only inches apart, yet neither reached out to the other.
The Gryffindor stared at the man’s obvious suffering for a moment in silence.
When he spoke, his voice was weary and troubled. “Why do you touch me if you
don’t want me?”
“Because I do want you, you imbecile,” Severus rasped into the soft fabric of
the rug.
The fire crackled loudly. Neither of them seemed to notice that their food had
arrived, and neither of them moved as the carefully prepared meal went cold.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
A week passed.
Classes resumed, Severus was summoned to a fruitless meeting for no apparent
reason, and Harry watched him writhe under Crucius in a dream. He woke up in
the Hospital Wing screaming Snape’s name. Dumbledore was strangely silent on
the issue.
Everything felt gelled to Harry, as though he was more of a bystander than a
player in the events surrounding him. On Tuesday he went to have tea with the
Headmaster and they actually had tea. With a minimal amount of encouragement
from Harry, Dumbledore regaled the teen with tales of his youth and stories of
the days before Grindelwald. There was no Occlumency lesson.
“My friend,” the Headmaster had explained, “is indisposed this week, so your
lessons will be on hold until after Christmas break. Unless, of course, there
is a problem.”
Harry was grateful for the reprieve and did not question it. He did, however,
make sure to practice his Occlumency every night before bed. He even took to
practicing in the mornings when he woke up. It seemed to center him—clear his
head. At any rate, the only visions Harry seemed to be having were of the
meetings Severus was summoned to, and those only seemed to be torture sessions.
It was also beginning to look as though visions were the only time he’d see
Severus. Kettleburn was still teaching Potions’ class because, according to
Dumbledore, Snape was using the time to council each of the Slytherins
separately. Personally, the Gryffindor thought that the man was just avoiding
him. Part of him was furious at the behavior, but he honestly hadn’t expected
anything less. The professor would happily stand in front of a dozen Avada
Kedavras for “the cause,” but the moment Harry tried to catch his eye, the man
vanished faster than Peeves after setting off a dung bomb in Filch’s office.
However, on more than one level, the reprieve was something of a blessing. He
was still reeling from what had happened in the man’s quarters on Sunday. He’d
left the Potions Master a crumpled heap on the floor and staggered back to the
Tower without breakfast. Thank Merlin the man had had the foresight to return
his invisibility cloak. As it was, only Ron had seen him reappear in the dorms,
and the youngest Weasley son merely breezed by him with a flat, knowing look.
Between Snape, Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione, Harry was nearly beside himself.
He was torn between wanting to tell the world to bugger off, wanting to hide in
his trunk, and wanted to just go out and kill Voldemort (or be killed) and get
it all over with. Unfortunately, none of those were viable options, so all he
could do was grit his teeth and avoid everyone’s eyes—especially the
Slytherins. If he had had to deal with Snape on top of everything else, he
might very well have broken down.
It was bad enough to have to walk into the Great Hall and see the heavy, dreary
black banners that marked a death in the school. In the Wizarding World,
mourning lasted for forty-five days and nights. Though Harry couldn’t seem to
mourn properly, he had the sinking feeling that, like his grief over Cedric and
Sirius, the curious hollowness Draco had left in his wake would never really
fade, no matter how many days and nights passed. He felt guilty for losing
Cedric, Sirius, and Draco in the shuffle, and so tried not to think about them
at all. Avery and Goyle were consigned to a small, dark place inside him that
he did not think about at all. He knew he’d have to kill people someday, and he
didn’t feel any solid emotion he could grapple with regarding them, so they
were simply locked somewhere quiet. It was a surprisingly easy thing to do when
he felt so numbed and simultaneously over and under whelmed.
Avoiding thinking of so many things, however, gave him only one issue to brood
on: his relationship—or rather, lack thereof—with Ron and Hermione. For nine
days Ron and Hermione didn’t speak to him and every time he thought about
approaching them, he got a heavy lump in his throat. By the time Monday rolled
around again, he was sick of it. He cornered them in the dorms after
Transfiguration class, standing directly in front of Common Room door so that
couldn’t pass.
Ron glared at him and Hermione avoided his eyes.
For a moment the Trio stood in strained silence, ignoring the First and Second
Years who stared at them in obvious interest. The tension between the three,
coupled with the strain of Malfoy’s death had cast a heavy blanket over
Gryffindor Tower that no one seemed to be able to shake. Even the other
upperclassmen had taken to avoiding Ron, Hermione, and Harry.
Without acknowledging the ears straining to hear him, Harry forced himself to
look at the two people who’d been at the epicenter of his life at Hogwarts. He
pressed his lips together and exhaled heavily. “We need to talk.”
Hermione moved first, acknowledging his quiet request with a nod of her head
before Ron could refuse him. When she met his eyes, he flinched at the unspoken
censure there. He’d never meant to hurt them with his silence.
Ron set his jaw into a hard line, barely broken by the faint stubble that Harry
had failed to notice the other boy growing. “The dorm.” His voice was flat.
Harry didn’t even bother to hide his sigh of relief and nodded.
The other Gryffindors’ eyes followed the group as they headed towards, and then
up, the stairs to the boys’ dormitory in a tense silence. No one called out to
them as they passed. Ron opened the door and stepped inside, holding the door
for Hermione and Harry. Thankfully, the room was empty. Without consulting one
another, they all went to Harry’s bed.
In lieu of the real thing, Harry had taken to sleeping with Severus’s cloak at
night and it lay in a rumpled heap on the foot of his otherwise neat blankets.
Ron picked up the cloak in his right hand and stared at it expressionlessly.
Hermione clambered up onto the high bed and tucked her legs beneath her, neatly
arranging the pleats of her skirt. Harry swallowed hard and watched the other
boy stare at the cloak, dread coiling in his stomach.
After a moment, Ron looked up from the cloak and met Harry’s surprisingly
steady gaze. He handed the shorter boy the cloak. “I don’t want any secrets
between us,” the redhead said as he relinquished the dark material.
Harry suddenly looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He plopped down on the
bed, up towards the pillows and wrapped the cloak around him as though cold. “I
don’t want that either, but things are so different now. . .” He wanted it to
be like First Year again, but he couldn’t say that. He reclined against the
pillows as Ron sat down and leaned back against one of the thick wooden posts.
“It’s not only my life—my secret—at stake. I don’t want to see anyone else hurt
because of me.”
Hermione frowned at him unhappily, her hazel eyes suspiciously bright. “Then
trust us.”
Harry’s lips parted and he looked at her for a long moment. Then his mouth
closed and his eyes dropped to the now rumpled red coverlet before drifting up
to Ron. It was the Weasley’s blue eyes that centered him: blue as ice, but
without a hint of cold—simply . . . expectation. Waiting.
And supportive.
He swallowed around a cause-less obstruction in his throat and hunched back
into his cloak.
These people were his friends. They had followed him into blood and
uncertainty. They had stood beside him when the whole world though he was mad.
They tolerated his stony silences, his fits of temper, and his constant
disregard for their advice. They tolerated him. Full stop. Being the Boy Who
Lived didn’t stop that, and being gay didn’t stop that, and feeling as though
his entire body had been turned inside out hadn’t stopped that. No matter what
he did or said or felt, nothing shattered or bent within these people.
They were his friends.
Harry swallowed again, with only a bit less difficulty, and cleared his throat.
The next time he opened his mouth, he told them. He told them nearly
everything.
He told them about Draco. Without the advantage of a Veritaserum buffer, the
words were stilted and occasionally he felt his eyes burn fiercely, but his
voice never once cracked. Somehow, that counted as a victory of some sort,
right? He told them about Mary and Goyle and Avery and the night in the woods.
He told them about the funeral and the awful hollowness in Narcissa Malfoy’s
eyes. He told them about his dreams of Voldemort and about the Prophecy. He
told them about the silence between him and Remus.
He didn’t mention the Dursleys at all, nor did he speak about the week he and
Snape spent alone at Headquarters. In fact, Snape’s name was mentioned very few
times, and then only in passing. As much as he wanted to share that with them,
he knew he couldn’t. Somehow, wanking off with one’s teacher just wasn’t
something that should be discussed . . . especially since he would have to tell
them about what happened the next day. He wasn’t ready to face that yet. He
didn’t want to deal with the memory of Snape’s hand ‘round his throat.
To their credit, Ron and Hermione listened in silence, though the youngest
Weasley son’s face was pale and his ears were bright red by the end. Hermione
had tears in her eyes, but restrained herself admirably from flinging herself
at Harry.
It was Ron who moved first, shifting about on the bed with a scowl, before
turning those pale blue eyes back to his best friend. “What happens now?”
Harry shrugged, unsure whether Ron meant them, or the entire situation. He
wrapped the black cloak tighter about his body, taking comfort in the soft
familiarity and faintly chemical scent.
“You can’t protect us forever,” the redhead said after a moment of silence. He
looked away, plainly frustrated.
Hermione watched the two of them carefully for a moment before scrubbing her
eyes to rid them of excess moisture. “We’ll help you.”
It was a statement—a decision.
Harry looked at her for a moment and then nodded in acquiescence, feeling
somewhat better. This was not a fight he’d win any time soon, he knew. And it
wasn’t one he particularly wanted to win.
Ron reached out and tugged lightly on the black cloak and Harry tensed
noticeably. The other boy merely offered him a wan little smile and said,
“Snape’s cloaks look just like this, you know.”
The sheer subtly of the question caught Harry off guard. He had expected
demands—rants—not . . . that. When had Ron learned subtly?
They looked at one another and the weight of the statement seemed stifling.
Then Harry nodded and pursed his lips in sudden decision. “I rather like them.”
The words sounded forced and, though he had been going for noncommittal, his
tone came out as pleading.
Ron’s jaw tightened and darkness danced briefly over his features, but he only
nodded and sat back. Hesitantly, Harry looked over to Hermione. Her mouth was
set in a tight line of disapproval and her face looked pinched, but she didn’t
say anything either.
They were all quiet and tense for a long moment before Harry, still ensconced
in the robe, looked back to Ron. “He said yes.”
Hermione started. “Who?”
“Dumbledore.” Harry cleared his throat unnecessarily. “He said—he said that we
could probably do the D.A. again, but he wants all the Heads of House to
approve it. He said they’d talk about it at the next staff meeting and that one
professor would be assigned to supervise. And that we’d have to change the
name.”
“Defensive Academics,” the bushy-haired prefect responded in a heartbeat.
Ron shot his girlfriend a sharp look. “Been sitting on that one for a while?”
The girl blushed and glared simultaneously and Harry could help but smile.
Ron grinned when he caught sight of the expression on the Seekers face. “It’ll
be alright in the end, you know?”
Harry felt his smile widen of its own accord. “I know.” And for the first time
since Fourth Year, he rather believed that was true.
Hermione smiled shifted on the bed so that she was leaning closer to the boys.
“So let’s talk lesson plans.”
The other two groaned in unison. Harry didn’t even notice that the cloak had
fallen off of his shoulders.
The next few days became a whirlwind of activity for Harry. There was Quidditch
and even more studying than he’d been doing before, and tea and more stories
with Dumbledore, and class work, and a hundred other things he seemed to have
been missing all term. It was a strange thing to simply stop going through the
motions and to suddenly begin to live again. But Ron and Hermione were there
and the minute a sulk seemed imminent, there was something new to do or discuss
or a new Weasley Wizard Whiz just out of the laboratory. And there were
letters, too . . . letters from the Weasleys and from Dumbledore—notes to see
if he was okay.
It was Technicolor and unbelievably real. For the first time all year, he had
fun.
But he did not forget—not for an instant.
Sometimes he thought of Draco or Sirius or Cedric, and sometimes even the
Dursleys snuck in there, but more often than not, he thought of Severus. How
the man looked when he was angry. How he looked when he was aroused. How he
looked when he was grieving. How he looked when he was under Cruciatus. How he
looked when he had been worrying those rosary beads like they were the last
things on earth. How he looked just before they kissed. How he looked just
before he pushed Harry away.
He’d become important to him somehow. Severus Snape . . . was an important
person to him. Snape had taught Harry the meaning of ‘burning gaze’—a look so
intense, it was physically scalding. Sometimes, Harry thought that he might
like to teach Snape something too.
It was strange. If anyone had said a year ago that he’d be attracted to his
greasy, cruel Potions Master, he’d have fallen over laughing . . . If he hadn’t
hexed the bastard right then and there. Now, though, it seemed funny that he
hadn’t been drawn to the man before.
Snape was not handsome, no matter how one looked at him. His skin had a faint
jaundiced look, like candle wax; his hair was as greasy as it appeared; his
teeth were a bit crooked and slightly yellowed, like aging parchment; his nose
was too big and had distinctive hook to it where it had obviously been broken
once too often. He was arrogant, smarmy, and could be downright boorish when it
suited him. The man was just flat out unpleasant.
But somehow that didn’t deter Harry in the least, because Snape was brave and
fierce and brilliant, and the way he touched Harry was enough to turn the
Gryffindor into butter. Severus’s touches and caresses were claims and brands
and each one seemed to burn the Potions Master deeper and deeper into his
thoughts. He knew without knowing that Severus was fiercely and wildly jealous
and that, once he claimed something as his, he would never willingly relinquish
it. Strange and harsh as his ultimatum to the other man had sounded, he knew
perfectly well that Snape wouldn’t let him go now. Odd as it seemed, he had
already won the fight.
And—for reasons that he didn’t even want to consider—he rather liked the idea
of being owned in that singular sort of way of Severus’s. Every time the man
touched him, Severus owned him. That, he felt, was something that he could
become accustomed to.
The only thing he was waiting on was for Snape to figure that out.
But he could be patient, if only for this one little thing. Hogwarts was a hard
place to hide—even for someone as good as Severus Snape. And ultimately, Ron
had been right: somehow everything would be alright in the end. He didn’t know
how he knew that, but he did. He was as sure of it as he was that Snape would
be back before very long. Severus was not an unselfish man, after all.
And so life, however arbitrary it may have been, continued . . . without Draco
Malfoy.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
“You have sacrificed more than anyone could have possibly asked, Madame.” There
was no hint of a twinkle in Albus’s eyes as he spoke and the somber expression
made him seem even older than usual. “I must ask you: are you certain this is
what you desire? You know the risks you take—better than most of your
predecessors, I’d wager.”
Narcissa met his eyes evenly and was fiercely proud that she could maintain her
composure without breaking down into tears or having a fit of passion. Or
perhaps she had simply exhausted herself. Tears and passion, Lucius had always
said, belonged behind closed doors. A Malfoy was always congenial and composed.
She was a Malfoy.
The woman took a fortifying sip of tea, ignoring the throb in her left arm with
the motion. “I have never been one to leap blindly into the void,” she murmured
to the lip of her teacup.
The Headmaster sighed quietly. “True, but there would have been other ways, my
dear. Your actions, though well intentioned, have been rash, and—”
“My actions are my own,” the matriarch interrupted calmly. “I accepted the Mark
freely. I do not regret it. If you can find no use for me, then I shall look
elsewhere. Such services are always in demand. You are not his only opponent.”
She set the teacup on the edge of the table and stood, her black skirts
rustling as she prepared to go.
“I do not trust you.”
The words were said so quietly that the fire seemed to cover them. Narcissa
froze, hand paused in mid air where she’d been reaching for her shift. She
dropped her chin and turned slightly, the action making her eyes look
incredibly large and beguiling. The Headmaster was not affected.
“What have I done to warrant such hesitance?” There was no offense or anger in
her voice, merely cool, clinical curiosity.
Albus smiled slightly at the question, a look of indulgence. “What have you
done to prove anything to the contrary?”
Silk gloved hands smoothed down the front of her skirts as Narcissa watched the
headmaster with flat, guarded eyes. “Guilty until proven innocent, then? I do
not require your sponsorship so much that I need to play that game.”
“But you admit that you require it?” he asked her with keen eyes.
“I would not be here if I did not!” she snapped suddenly. The flash of anger
vanished just as quickly as it had come, though, and the icy blonde sniffed as
though dismissing the moment and looked away. Her eyes stared distantly at a
landscape painting for a moment as she collected herself. “I have a vested
interest in seeing the Dark Lord’s fall, Headmaster.”
She moved to study the painting more closely, skirts whispering around her. “He
has taken everything from me. My son. My husband.” A hard pain shot up the
bridge of her nose and ever so slowly, the painting blurred as tears formed
lightly in her eyes. She blinked them back. “Stolen from me. Sacrificed to his
hubris.” She turned, unable to fully hold back the manic look in her eyes. “I
can do this, Headmaster. I must do this.”
Albus took a slow, measured sip of tea. “Why come to me then?”
The woman smiled faintly, a humorless expression, and he voice was low and
steady. “I have blood on my hands. I bear the collective sins of the Malfoy
House. Before this is all over, these things will come to light, and I will be
brought to task for the transgressions of my husband and son. You and I both
know that people are slow to act and quick to blame. When Harry Potter destroys
Voldemort, the Malfoy name will be brought into question. It is time to atone
for our past mistakes.”
“And you do not believe that the blood already shed is enough to atone for
whatever you may need me to sweep under the proverbial carpet?” He sounded
genuinely curious.
The Lady sneered. “Blood binds, it does not free. I am bound by blood.”
The Headmaster nodded in acknowledgement. “Perhaps.” There was a strangely loud
click as he set the teacup and saucer down on the table. “But to whom? And for
what purpose?”
Slender hands clenched into fists and a stricken expression flashed across his
companion’s face. “For what is owed to me!” Narcissa cried in frustration. “For
the husband I lost and the son who died for my sake! For the man who
orchestrated their downfalls! For the Mark I accepted because I would have
eventually been killed otherwise! And even for the heartless Headmaster who
slept while my child breathed his last! For that purpose, Professor!” At the
end her voice cracked and she could feel a single, hot, treacherous tear
sliding down her cheek. Frustrated by her own lack of control, she turned and
dashed the wetness away with a gloved hand.
Pain radiated through her, an aching hollowness that had nothing to do with her
left arm, and left her feeling utterly shattered inside.
The Headmaster remained silent.
“For what is owed to me,” she whispered harshly to the wall.
Albus shifted in his chair, watching the woman’s bent form with sad eyes. “Ah.
So you believe I owe you this?”
Narcissa slowly turned her head and looked at him with an unfathomable
expression. “I believe that I am a woman alone who is trying to stand up for
her life. I believe that I have nothing left to offer in this little game of
yours except myself. I believe that this war must end and I owe my child the
courtesy of helping that end come about. And I believe that regardless of this
Mark or your sufferance, I will not survive this, so everything else is
negligible. What more do I have to give? Or to lose?”
“Yourself.”
Exhausted, grief-stricken blue eyes met infinitely sad ones and Narcissa smiled
once more. The expression twisted her pained face unnaturally and was somehow
ghoulish. “I am gone. He knows about your little snake in Snape’s clothes,
Headmaster. How long do you think Severus can keep this up? How long will you
allow him to?”
Behind his beard, Albus’s lips thinned into a firm, unhappy line. “Lucius?”
“My husband and I did not always agree about everything, but we did share
everything. Even such delicate information.”
“And how do you know that I will not betray you, Mrs. Malfoy,” the elderly man
asked bluntly. “You are only of use to me as long are useful to me. Is this
truly a void you wish to test?”
She swallowed heavily. “It is all I have, Headmaster. Surely even you can
understand something as primal as revenge.” Her eyes narrowed darkly.
“Something as Slytherin.”
“Human,” he corrected, tugging idly at his beard.
The two of them stared one another in the eye for a long, long moment. Finally
Albus nodded once, a grim expression on his face, and stood. He extended his
aged hand to Narcissa, prompting her to come closer. Her hands were small,
soft, and surprisingly warm within their black silk confines.
The Headmaster’s eyes were dark and hard as they shook. “Welcome to the Order
of the Phoenix, Lady Malfoy.”
Something inside of Narcissa clenched and coiled at the words, a heaviness
settling deep within her. She set her jaw and nodded firmly, ignoring the
aching pain in her arm. “Thank you, Headmaster.” The gratefulness in her voice
was genuine.
It was done.
She felt her strength leave her and almost collapsed back into her chair,
exhausted. She distantly heard the Headmaster call her name, but made no effort
to fight her exhaustion.
It was done.
It was truly done.
And they are all going to pay.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Birthdays were a time to take stock of one’s life—one’s accomplishments. He was
thirty-eight years old today . . . And what had he to show for it all?
His robes swirled about his ankles as he paced. A House Elf—the doting,
sniveling creature Barty Crouch had left in his wake—was unobtrusively dusting
off a bookcase. Occasionally, her immense red-brown eyes would flicker to the
agitated human and she would frown unhappily, but thankfully she remained
blessedly silent. Severus didn’t quite know what he’d do if she had said
something.
It had been sixteen days since Draco Malfoy had met his untimely end. Twelve
days since he had held Harry Potter down in his lap and touched him in ways no
one should be permitted to. Eleven days since Albus had damned them both to a
lie they could not lead and he had subsequently driven the boy from his
chambers. From his life.
How was it possible for the world to keep going when so much of it was falling
apart?
He had told himself it was for the best. He had told himself that he could do
this without this monstrosity of a relationship. He had told himself that this
would work.
He had lied.
Severus pivoted on his heel, feeling a negligible thrill of satisfaction as his
robes snapped behind him with an audible ‘crack’ and startled the Elf. Her
duster knocked into one of his innumerable trinkets and there came the light
tinkle of shattering glass, but he ignored it.
He found himself ignoring a lot of things lately. He ignored the Slytherins’
silence regarding Draco. He ignored the swell of pity in the rest of the
staff’s eyes when they saw him. He ignored the returned letter of condolence
he’d sent to Narcissa Malfoy. He ignored this intractable Elf that had waited
on him hand and foot since he had opened his door to the sycophantic creatures
again. He ignored the way Harry’s eyes followed him everytime they saw one
another. He ignored the dark looks Granger and Weasley shot him. He ignored the
throbbing in his arm that he now knew was not the Dark Lord. He ignored Albus’s
heavy disapproval.
But he found himself unable to ignore his chair where they’d touched, or the
boy’s glasses on the mantel, or the dark swirl of jealousy he felt whenever
that stupidly heart stopping smile was directed at anyone else.
He did not want Harry to smile at anyone else. And why was that half-blood
Seamus Finnegan always hovering over the whelp anyway? It was enough to set his
teeth on edge.
Abruptly he stopped, garnering another worried glance from the Elf.
Potter. It always—always—came back to a Potter. He should by all rights be
furious with the brat . . . with himself . . . Instead he just felt hollow. Why
did it feel this way?
“Master Snape, sir?”
Severus scowled and tuned to face the Elf, barely resisting the urge to cross
his arms over his chest. “I am not your Master, Elf,” he snarled.
She ignored the comment in favor of smoothing down the front of her pristine
tea towel and looking abashedly at her large, bare Elf feet. “Winky is worried
that Master Snape has been being upset, sir.” Her voice was curiously
melodious. “Winky is thinking that Master Snape, sir, might be happy if he is
having his Harry Potter again.”
Severus blanched. “What?”
Winky looked up at him beneath her thin lashes, both reserved and coy. “Winky
is asking for Special Assignment, like Dobby. Winky is watching out for Master
Snape now, sir. Winky is keeping Master Snape’s secrets and his silences, sir.
Dobby was being most put out with Master Snape for damaging Mister Harry
Potter, so Winky is going to be with Master Snape now.” She hesitated and
watched him carefully. “Dobby . . . Dobby can be being a bad Elf sometimes,
sir, but he is not mean and he is trying his best. And Dobby is Winky’s friend,
so Winky wants to be keeping him out of trouble.”
The Potions Master clenched his jaw and glared fixedly at the Elf. If she said
she was keeping his secrets, then she was keeping his secrets, but the only one
with any authority over the Elves was the Headmaster, and he was getting damned
tired of that old man constantly sticking his nose into his business. “How long
have you been on ‘Special Assignment,’ Elf?”
“Since Master Snape is coming back from his Manor, sir.”
The breath caught in his throat and he choked, turning away to bark out a
painful cough. Fucking Albus Dumbeldore—
A glass of water appeared next to him with a ‘pop,’ hovering in the air as he
struggled to catch his breath.
He turned away from the water, still doubled over in a coughing fit, and his
chest rattled till it felt as though something tore inside him. Deep, gasping
breaths were pulled into his lungs and shuddered through him as his eyes misted
over.
Sodding Lord Albus bloody fucking Dumbledore! Bastard!
“Master—!”
“SHUT. UP,” the human rasped, still choking and bent double.
The Elf watched him in silence for a moment as the man regained his breath and
slowly righted himself. Her large, liquid eyes were curiously expressionless.
Severus took deep gulps of air. “Have you been spying on me?” he demanded
without looking down at her.
“Winky is keeping Master Professor Snape’s secrets, sir.” The creature sounded
affronted that he’d dared implied anything to the contrary. Perhaps she
was—House Elf honor and mores were never something he’d paid close attention
to.
He straightened his robes and resumed his stalking, almost running Winky over
before she hastily moved.
“Winky is thinking that Master Professor Snape should be talking with Harry
Potter, sir.”
Severus shot her a look that was pure poison. “Mind your place, Elf! I do not
need a servant’s advice on my personal affairs.”
The Elf sidestepped the man as he turned sharply on his heel to begin a new
circuit of pacing.
“Master is surely wise,” she agreed in a placating tone as she wrung the end of
her tea towel in her spindly hands, “but sometimes he is not seeing the
butterbeer for the foam.”
Abruptly, Severus stopped, his robes whispering about his ankles with lost
momentum, and he tightly pinched the bridge of his considerable nose and
squeezed his eyes shut. “Merlin deliver me from my just comeuppance in the form
of match-making Death Eater’s House Elves.”
Either she hadn’t heard him, or she was ignoring him. Winky turned back to the
table she’d been dusting and repaired the ornamental vial she’d broken with a
wave of her hand. “Master is missing Harry Potter, but does he not wonder if
Harry Potter is missing him?”
I miss you.
“Winky is knowing Harry Potter is missing him. Winky is hearing the things
Dobby is saying. But maybe Harry Potter is not going to be happy always missing
Master Professor Snape. Maybe Harry Potter will be finding people so that he
does not have to miss Master Professor Snape so much.”
Something dark and vicious coiled inside the Potions Master at the thought of
Harry Potter “not missing him so much” anymore. Or worse: the thought of the
boy “finding people.”
But isn’t that what he’d threatened? That he wouldn’t wait forever.
He’d given Severus an ultimatum—one the older man was loathe to concede to . .
. And one whose alternative he would not tolerate.
With every choice in his life currently pushing, pulling, and dragging him to
the boy, who was he to blow against the wind? And these half-hearted struggles
of his ultimately amounted to nothing anyway.
Could it really all be so simple?
Severus was a man who prided himself on control, and around Potter it seemed he
had none. Not even the boy’s father had the dubious honor of inspiring such
emotion in him. Rage, fear, anxiety, lust, loathing, possession, attraction . .
. All the shackles he thought time and circumstance had relieved him of had
come crashing back into his life in the form of a lightening bolt scar, a firm,
unyielding mouth, and impossibly green eyes. How was it that this one
insignificant Gryffindor could so upend his reason and routine? And yet he did
so . . . effortlessly.
How could Severus vent all of what he was on the slumped shoulders of that
impossible brat? Whether it be anger or affection?
The Potions Master held few illusions about himself. He was not a nice,
pleasant, or kind man. He was violent, both physically and emotionally. He was
volcanic. He was snide and cruel. He was in no small measure sadistic. He would
invariably hurt the boy. Regardless of whether or not the wounds were visible,
it was inevitable.
“I will not accept any resignation from you at this time, Severus. Not in any
form.”
. . . And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? This . . . Hero . . . was his
now. Handed over to him on a golden platter by the Great Lord Albus Dumbledore.
Kyrie eleison.
Or perhaps he was stolen . . . an apple from the Tree, devoured by the Serpent
himself.
Severus stopped in front of the fire, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at
the mantle where the glasses watched him with cracked, sightless lenses. He
stared at the wall where he had tried to crush the boy’s throat but could not
close his hand. He stared at the floor where those horribly green eyes had
glared at him in bruised accusation.
“Why do you touch me if you don’t want me?”
He closed his eyes and turned his head away.
Et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?
What was he to do now? Where were they to go?
Did Albus really believe that love would win the day? Was this even love?
No.
You have to break in half to love someone like that.
This was lust. Obsession. Need, desire, and possession. This was a craving the
way a dehydrated man craves water or the insomniac cries out for sleep. This
was not love.
Did it even matter?
The boy—young man—was his now, to save or dispose of as he chose.
To save.
He had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not destroy this thing .
. . Those fragile bones beneath his fingers would have given way so easily . .
. And yet his hand would not close.
“Well, Iknowwhat I want. And I am not going to wait forever for you to figure
it out.”
I want—
I want—
What did he want? To claim this child? To bed him? To own him? To possess him?
To devour him?
Yes.
And it would destroy them both.
And if he did not, they would both supposedly be destroyed.
A thin, stained hand covered Severus’s mouth for a moment, and he closed his
eyes slowly as though battling nausea.
Albus would not forgive him this debauchery. He did not vocally blame him, but
he would never forgive him.
The professor’s hand slid up from his mouth to massage his temples as he
squeezed his eyes shut. He could not escape this—was not even sure he wanted
to.
“I would sooner tear the veins from my own flesh one by one—it would amount to
the same!”
“Master?”
The Elf’s voice startled him and he jumped before leveling a vicious scowl at
the creature. “What?”
“Your clock, Master.”
Severus’s eyes swiveled towards the mantel before he could stop himself. “I
don’t have—”
A clock. A garish, purple wizard’s clock was sitting on his mantle. Next to it
was a little slip of paper that read, “Happy Birthday, Severus!!” in familiar,
loopy letters. The clock had a single magenta hand that was pointing to where
the 4 should have been; instead of a 4, though, the words “in a snit” were
scrawled in brilliant green in the same handwriting.
If possible, the man’s dark scowl hardened even further. The long fingers of
his right hand twitched upwards, curling towards his wrist as though tempted to
pull out his wand and hex the offensive gift.
Winky watched him with unabashed curiosity. “Sir?”
Abruptly, his fingers went slack and he stared blankly at the clock.
You had to break in half to love someone. He was not that much of a fool yet.
And yet . . . he just . . . wanted to see him. Just for a moment.
Severus closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I need some air.” He straightened
his shoulders and headed towards the door with long, ground-eating strides.
“You are not to be here when I return.”
“Yes, Master.”
He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the Elf’s last word.
The dungeons were quiet—no mischievous Slytherins playing about, no Gryffindors
stirring up trouble, no Ravenclaws worried over assignments, or Hufflepuffs
looking for their friends. Simply silence. It echoed inside him. Hogwarts had
died with Draco Malfoy . . . just a little bit. He felt the hollowness within
him, neighboring the dull ache of Harry Potter.
His footsteps guided him up the stairs and through the doors—a dozen sets of
doors, each unremarkable and a bit grayer than they were before. Forty-five
days of mourning. How was that enough to encompass a life? Minerva averted her
eyes when he passed her and he did not care. He was tired of caring. And of
thinking. And of being.
“Do this for the remembrance of me.”
And then he was in font of the Forbidden Forest, headed towards Draco Malfoy’s
memorial. A bit of marble was not enough to encompass a life either. Nor were
memories. But it had been a “nice” service—everyone had said so—and that would
have to be enough for the part-veela, not-quite-heroic son of a Death Eater.
The air was cold and whispered in the trees, somehow both thin and thick, and
his robes felt far too hot.
He was tired.
However, it was not exhaustion, but surprise that made him stop short a few
meters from the grave.
Because there, sitting in front of the raised plaque as though he somehow
belonged there, was Harry Potter. The boy looked tired, but somehow less
fragile than the last time he’d seen him. But then again, Severus had been
trying very hard over the last few days not to see Harry Potter.
How predictable that the boy would be here waiting for him. How . . . blasé.
He must have moved or inhaled sharply, because the Gryffindor suddenly looked
up, green eyes almost . . . normal looking behind the shiny, thin frames of his
glasses. He looked up at the man without saying anything, still as a statue in
front of the memorial.
For a moment they stared at one another as the cool November wind moved between
them, filling up the void. Severus’s hands balled into fists and he found
himself unable to speak, the words trapped behind tightly clenched teeth.
“Couldn’t you even let me mourn in peace?” The words clogged his throat and
constricted his breathing.
Harry looked away first. “I’m allowed to mourn, too, you know.” He turned to
look at the lonely little stone that rose in memorial to Draco Malfoy. He
reached out and his fingers danced over the words carved into the stone.
Friend, inspiration, hero.
The Boy Who Never Died’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. How clumsy. How
inaccurate.
Draco had died friendless. He had inspired no one, stood for nothing. He had
died because he was a millisecond too slow. Because nobody had cared if he
died. Because no one had listened to him—Harry least of all. He had died a
silly, senseless death. He was not a hero at all.
Severus looked at the ground, feeling uncomfortable and intrusive. “I suppose
you do,” he said flatly in response to Harry’s comment. He closed his eyes and
tried to banish memories of what they had done from his mind. “Heaven forbid
the world does not bow before the will of the Famous Harry Potter.” The words
were intentionally cruel, specifically designed to evoke a reaction.
But the boy disappointed him, neither flinching nor turning around to glare. In
fact, he totally ignored Snape’s presence.
The man snarled and took a step forward, intent on grabbing the boy, shaking
him, dashing his head against the stone, anything. . . . Because it wasn’t
enough. Being here, seeing him everyday—seeing and never, ever touching—never
acknowledging . . . It just wasn’t enough. And it was better to kill Harry
Potter than to never touch him again.
Harry released a low, bitter chuckle, his fingers still dancing over the stone.
“You never bowed to my will. To this—”
“This is nothing, Potter! NOTHING!!” Severus snarled. He grabbed the teenager
by the forearm with bruising force and yanked him away from the memorial stone
to his feet, shaking him roughly. Harry went limp, neither struggling nor
protesting, instead simply staring up into his eyes with an unnervingly patient
expression. “Just because we—I—made a foolish error—just because I lost
control—”
The boy smiled abruptly and the expression was so sudden that Severus stopped
again, the words once more unwilling to come. He was suddenly painfully aware
of how close they stood, how warm Harry’s body was pressed against him . . .
the scent of him.
A small hand rose and cupped his cheek in a terrifyingly tender gesture and
Harry leaned even closer, still smiling. “I make you lose control?”
Severus’s grip on his arm went slack.
“I like that,” Harry murmured as he leaned against the man.
The Potions Master’s arms fell limp to his sides and he turned away. “I cannot
do this.”
“We already have. We already are.”
“I cannot do this,” the man repeated. But he did not move away.
“Why not?”
“This is wrong.”
Harry looked up at him and he unwillingly found himself staring into those
overly magnified green eyes. The boy frowned slightly. “Why is it so wrong?”
“You are—”
“I am not a child.”
“An innocent.”
Green eyes narrowed darkly for a moment and then Harry suddenly stepped away,
bumping into the stone in his haste. The loss made Severus feel cold and he
turned away, unable to meet that suddenly cold gaze. He swallowed heavily.
“You never asked,” Harry said after a moment.
The wind blew and the grass bent heavily as though it was too weak to support
itself. “Asked what?”
Harry raised his chin and tilted his head to the side slightly to the right so
that he was looking down at his professor. “What happened at the Durselys’.”
Severus’s head swung up suddenly and he felt the air grow chill as the weight
of the words settled around them. He stood up straighter unconsciously. “It is
not my concern.” Please do not tell me.
Harry looked down slightly and tilted his head to the left. “You don’t want to
know?”
“It is not my concern.”
“Am I not your concern?” It was not a question; it was a challenge.
Yes. “Yes.”
“So ask me.”
“Harry . . .” His mouth moved mechanically, uncomfortable with its given task.
“What happened at the Dursleys’?”
For a moment, Harry simply stared at him. There was nothing innocent or young
in his gaze now; it was weighing, judging, calculating. Slytherin. Severus did
not lower his gaze.
The wind blew and the trees shivered beneath its force.
“I killed him.”
The wind stopped blowing.
“My uncle,” Harry elaborated. “He cursed my parents. He struck me. He was going
to put me back in the cupboard. I couldn’t bear it. I lost my temper. I Cursed
him and his heart burst and he died.”
There was no emotion in his voice. No inflection. No regret. Nothing.
Severus stared into his eyes expressionlessly for a moment. He knew that he
should feel something in the face of such cold news. Anything. Disappointment,
shock, fear, revulsion, anger, sorrow, grief . . . But they all slipped past
him. All he could feel was exhaustion and the chill of the air against his
skin. He sighed heavily. “What Curse?” He had not missed the emphasis on the
word “curse.”
Harry smiled sadly, as though laughing at some private joke. His eyes seemed to
tear up behind his thick spectacles. “Cruciatus. Wandless magic.” He shrugged
and gave a shaky laugh as a tear slid down his cheek. His voice trembled
slightly as he spoke. “He—he knocked me down into the sitting room table and,
um . . . I got so mad . . . It wasn’t fair that I was supposed to hurt this
much and no one was going to do anything. And I hated him and I hated everyone
because no one even cared and Sirius was dead and it was my fault. So I wished
it more than I had wanted anything else in my life and he started screaming.
And he fell down—” Harry’s voice cracked piteously “—and I—I couldn’t make the
Curse stop and he kept screaming and screaming and then he made this awful
little gagging noise and this big bubble of blood came out of his mouth. And he
. . . he died.”
Severus watched him, trying to regain control of himself for a moment in
silence. Then: “You never told anyone?”
Harry took off his glasses and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “Moody.
Dumbledore. No one else. No one but you.”
The man watched him closely, unable to conjure the proper thing to do or say.
For a rare moment, he was totally at a loss. “You mustn’t kill people.” The
words tasted like bile and sounded foolish the moment he said them.
Harry laughed brokenly. “It will never stop. Killing, I mean.”
Severus shook his head with sudden vehemence and found himself striding forward
to grip Harry by the shoulders and pull him upright. “No. No, that’s not what I
meant, Harry. You must not kill people. You mustn’t.”
Harry stared up at him and swallowed weakly, his voice thick with tears that he
refused to let fall. “Then we’re all going to die.” He smiled slightly. “It’s
okay. It’s just . . . hard. I didn’t love my uncle, but I didn’t mean to . . .”
he trailed off and dropped his head. “No one deserves to die like that. I don’t
want to hurt people anymore.”
“You canfeelhis power in him, Severus, just as I can. That power must be
trained before he loses his temper and lashes out at someone.” The words came
back to him in a rush and Severus felt ill. Not because of the boy he was
drawing into his arms and holding close, but because of all things this boy
would have to endure.
Harry was right: it wasn’t fair.
Those small hands latched onto his robe and gripped him tight, pulling the
older man close until all either of them could feel or smell or remember was
the other . . . so close it burned. And it still wasn’t enough. Severus tilted
Harry’s head back and rough, stained fingers roughly pushed the youth’s
reluctant tears away before the older man pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss.
Harry responded eagerly and Severus pulled away after a moment, dragging the
boy even closer.
Only sixteen years old.
He squeezed his eyes shut, one hand petting Harry’s hair gently. “We must be
very careful,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“No one can know.”
“I know.”
“No one.”
“No one,” Harry agreed, his arms wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist.
He laid his head against Severus’s chest gently. “Are you doing this because
you pity me?”
“No. I do not pity people.”
“Then why?”
“Because you need someone. And I would rather it be me than anyone else.”
“Oh.” Harry looked up at him again with a strange, detached kind of curiosity.
“. . . Do you need me?”
No. Yes. Severus pulled back to look at him critically for a moment. “It has
been a very long time since I needed anyone, Mr—”
“Harry.”
“. . . Harry.”
The boy smiled faintly and pulled away. “Ah. I see.” He turned and sat down on
the grass in front of the memorial, staring at the marble once more. “Sit with
me?”
Severus frowned at his back, unsure what to make of such a response. “It is
cold.”
Harry pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “I can bear
a bit of cold for Draco. I owe him, you know.”
Severus sat down next to the boy. Yes. He knew. He watched the young man in
silence for a moment. “You belong to me now.” There was no compromise his
voice.
“I belonged to you anyway.” Harry closed his eyes. “You were just being
stubborn.”
Having nothing to say to that, Severus simply sat in silence. The cold seemed
to be seeping into his very bones, but he could not bring himself to care.
There were, after all, other things to be concerned about. Like how to keep
this little liaison under wraps. And the Dark Lord. And whatever Dumbledore was
plotting. And how to keep Harry from dying or getting his idiot self killed.
And classes. And Narcissa Malfoy. And the Death Eaters. And Lupin. And those
damned Elves.
So much . . .
Harry sighed quietly and Severus repeated the action, watching the boy. This
was wrong.
But that was the least of either of their problems. Nothing about the life of
Harry Potter was right, so what was this little bit of happiness in comparison?
Nothing.
Besides . . . Severus found his eyes wandering to the top tower of Hogwarts—the
Headmaster’s office—and frowned slightly. There were all sorts of monsters and
abominations in the world, by both design and necessity. This was only a small
aberration. He could live with that.
Happy Birthday to me.
Though, when he really looked at it, perhaps that was all it was really about.
Control. Time. Aberration. Change. And this thing with the—with him . . .
Perhaps one’s life really only came down to the least onerous choice. And given
the alternative . . .
His dark eyes flickered back to his companion, carefully tracing the soft,
unbroken curve of the youth’s cheek with his eyes.
The least onerous choice?
Yes. He could most definitely live with that.
“Squeak, squeak, squeak, my lords . . .”
Harry opened his eyes. “What did you say?”
The man shook head and pushed himself to his feet, roughly brushing off his
robes. “Nothing.” He held out a hand with an impatient frown. “Come, Harry;
you’ll catch your death out here.”
Harry smiled slightly and accepted his hand. “No. Not yet. I’ve too much to do
before I die.”
Severus’s eyes dimmed slightly, but he remained quiet, and Harry followed him
back to Hogwarts in silence, holding his hand for as long as possible.
 
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                                        

                     “A clouded dream on an earthly night
                         Hangs upon the crescent moon.
                     A voiceless song in an ageless light
                        Sings at the coming dawn . . .
                      Birds in flight are calling there,
                       Where the heart moves the stones;
                   It's there that my heart is longing for,
                           All for the love of you.

                       A painting hangs on an ivy wall,
                         Nestled in the emerald moss.
                      The eyes declare a truce of trust,
                           Then it draws me far away
                      Where, deep in the desert twilight,
                        Sand melts in pools of the sky,
                       Darkness lays her crimson cloak;
                        Your lamps will call me home.”
                              - Loreena McKennitt
                              The Mystic’s Dream

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*


                                     ~ Fin


                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

                              To be continued in:
                     The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc Part II –
                   Verse 10: Honest Opinions About the Stars

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
